In too deep
by wuemsel
Summary: A Muse for a Dayidea Thanks to Muse Brook!. The guys go undercover with a political group, but Starsky is made, and in order to save both their lives as well as the mission, Hutch has to work together with the very enraged fruitcakes. WARNING: the origi


Hi gang! Here´s a story I wrote some time ago for Muse Brook (wave at Brook) who was so cool and kind to lend me her idea. Which actually leads straight to a

**warning**: **this story sprang from akinda d****ark idea that, in fact, has already proven to... well, upset readers. And I don´t want to ruin anyone´s free time by having them read a story they won´t enjoy. So, the content REALLY is that one partner has to HURT****the other one in order to save both their lives. If that idea upsets you or if you find it discomforting, please don´t read this. Reading fanfic should be fun. There´s also a langugage warning. **

Last but not least - certainly not - special thanks to my Sunshine Friend Tamminy, who did the wonderful beta-work. You´re just the best, T´hy´la! Know that. ;) Yogalates!

Okay everyone, nough sai... oh, hey, wait a sec! I forgot! I do not own the main characters, but only the fruitcakes.

Now! Enjoy!

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IN TOO DEEP by wuemsel

Finally, a bush to land in. With what sounded like a sighed chirp of relief, the little bird let itself sink down onto a thin, fragile branch within the green shield, allowing itself to breath out at last: a gesture that would have been of great interest for any zoologist, since it resembled a yawn.

And no one could've held that against the little fellow, who had been up almost all night-- totally against its nature--restlessly roaming the urban jungle in search of a safe place to spend the night. Now that he'd found it, the sun was already in the midst of rising. Pinkish-golden rays were wandering slowly over the quiet alleys, soaking the gritty walls of the nearby houses in a beautiful light, as though they were ancient white temples, silkily bright and soft.

The roaring of the traffic washed up into the narrow side streets like the whooshing of the sea. The little fellow's colleagues' daily concert added to the falsely innocent appearance of this part of the city, where nature made a pact with human noises every day, creating a morning serenity that was artificial and not to be trusted.

Yet, our little friend was too young to know that -or maybe just too tired to remember it - and it dropped its guard. It buried its tiny head in the soft feathers of its shoulder, preparing to ignore the natural sleeping patterns given to it by nature, when suddenly its hiding place was knocked violently to one side. This sent the startled animal falling to the pavement, too surprised to even start flapping its wings. Only by inches did it manage to escape the running feet that hastily struggled for a safer hold on the ground after their owner's collision with the bush.

Before the little bird had gathered his wits again, his unaware attacker was off already, the quick thump-thump-thump of his boots fading in the streets. Hopping to its feet, the bird stared into the direction the feet had vanished, only to jump in startled fright when similar noises appeared behind it. Flapping around, it barely made it up into the air before a sneaker-clad foot smashed it. Frantically trying to gain some height, it was suddenly hit by a sharp rush of air that threw it back into the bush. Fortunately, its fall was broken by a triangle of crossed branches, and there it stayed the whole day long.

Its involuntary attackers, though, didn't have time for rest like that, as they tried to speed up even more on their chase.

"Damn birds!" the smaller one panted out annoyed as he waved his pained right hand, still throbbing from its accidental collision with the poor, flapping bird.

"No need to kill them," his blond companion answered, equally breathless, catching up with him again after having fallen behind at a curve in the alley. "They're not the enemy, Starsky."

"Wouldn't you know?" came the growled reply, and yet another corner was taken in flight-like sprint, once more leaving the blond behind, if not for long. "I swear, Hutch, sometimes..." He had to take a short pause to inhale, throwing his partner a glare without slowing down, and decided to leave it at that.

"It's not my fault the car broke down!" Hutch defended himself.

"It's your car!"

There was no denying that fact, and so Hutch wisely kept his silence while they chased down another alley. Starsky managed to land in the middle of each and every puddle, sprinkling both their jeans. At the end of this alley, there was an intersection.

Arriving first, Starsky more or less stumbled to an abruptly unsteady halt, jerking his head from one side to the other. "Where'd he go?" he asked, breathlessly.

Behind him, Hutch had taken the chance to try and catch his breath. He was standing hunched over with his hands on his knees, panting. "I have no idea; I didn't see him."

Glancing over his shoulder at his friend, Starsky let go of a faint breath that lacked the sufficient energy to sound like the desired snort. "Neglected training lately, Blondie?" he quipped. Not waiting for a reply, he took off to the left, leaving Hutch to take the right-hand path.

Grumbling a previously suppressed curse at his own car, Hutch started to sprint down the empty alley, but he stumbled to a halt when he saw it was a dead end. "Aw, damn it to Hell!"

Turning, he ran back and indeed caught his friend's voice somewhere in the distance of the left-hand path. "Stop! Police!" There was the shortest pause, then a loud crash, a yelp, and then silence.

"Starsk!" Fright speeding his steps, Hutch practically flew around another corner, almost losing his footing, and stopped at the unexpected sight before him.

One knee pressed firmly into the back of their downed suspect - a pale, lanky kid in his early twenties - Starsky was swearing at him most creatively, while fumbling with his cuffs to get them onto the kid's wrists. Behind them, the scaffolding on one of the buildings showed slight damage: one wooden pillar was hanging loose, and on the ground an empty bucket lay. If the large, wet, white stain covering Starsky, from his now-matted dark hair down to his blue sneakers was any indication, the paint in the now-empty bucket had been white.

Fighting the first instinct to chuckle helplessly at the sight of his white-striped partner, Hutch tried to swallow the pressing giggle and had to cough. At the noise, Starsky lifted his head, glaring at the approaching blond. He was done with cuffing the young man by now, but continued to sit on him, looking down on himself to inspect the damage for the first time. Having taken it all in, he cuffed the kid around the head with an unintelligible curse, then finally stood, dragging the kid to his feet as well.

"You caught him," Hutch stated smartly, earning a deadly glare through narrowed eyes. Trying to stop the corners of his mouth from twitching, he innocently added, "Are you okay?"

"Peachy," came the growled reply.

Hutch bit his lip ever so quickly to keep from laughing out loud and pointed at the young suspect. "Wanna read him his rights?"

"I don't want him to have rights," Starsky replied, giving the kid a rough shake.

"'Ey!" the young man protested. "Get him away from me, man!" He looked at Hutch. "T'is is unnecessary force!"

"What're you, a law student!" Starsky snapped at him. "Want me to show you unnecessary force!"

"I have a lawyer!" the kid announced, failing miserably in his attempt to sound threatening. The curly haired detective's fury at him seemed to really scare him.

"That's something acting in your favor, kid," Hutch said dryly and turned to his partner. "C'mon, let's get him back to the car."

Starsky stared at him, looking so close to exploding that even Hutch shrank back a tad, repressing the urge to drag the kid away from his friend for his safety.

"What for!"

Flinching at the bark, Hutch opened his mouth to reply, but stopped himself when the truth behind that question suddenly hit him. His face fell. "Oh."

"Uh-huh," Starsky grumbled, looking at his captive as if they were just new acquaintances. "His car broke down," he informed him with a humorless smile that had a slightly crazy look about it.

"I noticed," the kid replied politely.

Rolling his eyes, Starsky ignored him, glaring at his friend again. "Well, Brains?"

"We have to call in for someone to pick us up," Hutch said ruefully.

"Don't say!" Starsky snapped, starting their long walk back to the LTD, dragging the young man along carelessly and not waiting for Hutch to catch up with him.

"You know, Starsk," the blond said after a moment, "you're totally overreacting. It's not my fault. It could've happened to anyone. Cars, they break down sometimes. It happens."

The curly, half-white head practically snapped around to him. "Not to mine, it doesn't."

"I beg your pardon!" Hutch replied, widening his eyes. "Five minutes of sunshine, and the Tomato's engine looks like a barbecue!"

"And do you see the sun anywhere!" Starsky asked, jerking the silently listening kid he'd been guiding in between himself and Hutch to the other side, causing a slight stumble.

"Hey-"

The protest was ignored.

"My car never broke down in the middle of a chase!"

"We got him, didn't we?" Hutch pointed out defensively.

"I got him!"

"Yeah," Hutch smiled sweetly. "I must admit you're in pretty good shape. I'm really proud of-"

"So help me, Hutch-"

"Um, Officer, you're sort of hurting-"

"Shut up!" Starsky yelled at the young man, effectively silencing him. "Jeez."

Taking pity on the poor kid, who was starting to look rather uncomfortable, Hutch carefully offered, "D'you want me to take him?"

"No! If the little idiot hadn't run, none o' this woulda happened!" Starsky grumbled, glaring down at his captive. "Didn't your Mom ever tell you to not run away from the police!"

"Only if they're in a car," came the thoughtless reply.

Hutch instinctively backed away, as if from his partner's rage.

The LTD was an image of misery indeed. Smoke from under its hood still rose into the air in tangled ellipses, and the driver's door hung half-closed, as Hutch had more or less kicked it shut when sprinting off, in order to kill the horn that blared away whenever the door was opened. Whenever he started to reach over to open it a bit and then drag it fully closed, his partner's piercing glare kept him from it, and with a nervous smile he'd lower his hand again. He was sitting on the passenger seat, their young captive - who'd finally introduced himself as Eric Lardner - having been roughly placed on the back seat, and Starsky was leaning against the car's side, every now and then softly swearing, as he fingered the white paint on his red t-shirt.

Watching him for a moment, Hutch suddenly grinned. "You know something, Starsk?"

"Hmm…what?" the smaller man grumbled.

"You look like your car."

"Watch it, Blintz, or you'll end up looking like your car."

Saved by dispatch, Hutch quickly turned his attention to the mike again. "Yeah, Zebra Three he-"

"Uh, Hutch?" the lady on duty answered busily. "I'm sorry, but we don't have any available units in the area at the moment."

Exchanging a glance with his partner, Hutch frowned. "And... what does that mean?"

"No one can come collect you."

Irritated, Starsky grabbed the mike from Hutch. "What d'you mean, no one'll come! Didn't you listen? We got a-" he shot a quick look at Eric Lardner "-suspect with us and no car!"

"Sorry, Starsky, no can do."

"And what d'you suggest we do now!" Starsky snapped.

"Um...take a cab?"

Starsky stared at the mike, then at Hutch, back, and finally let it fall down into the blond's lap. "I hate this day," he muttered.

"Aw, cheer up," Hutch muttered, crawling out of his car. "It only just started."

Starsky scowled at him. "Funny, somehow that isn't helping my mood."

Casting him a sympathetic (and still annoyingly amused) smile, Hutch held the door open for Eric. "Mr. Lardner," he said dryly, making an offering gesture.

"You know, you guys still haven't read me my rights," the kid told them, while struggling to get out of the car with his hands cuffed behind his back.

Discreetly squeezing his eyes shut, Hutch waited for the reaction to that. When he heard a faint protest, he opened them again to see the young man half outside the car with the passenger door blocking his way, as it was held in place by Starsky.

"You have," the curly-haired detective told the kid. "the right to remain very, very silent. Got that?"

Coughing a little - and most pathetically, too - Eric nodded.

"Good." With that, Starsky let him go, and Hutch took over the door again, holding it open for their captive. "You also," Starsky added after a moment's thought, "have the right to pay for the cab."

Looking from one detective to the other, Eric widened his eyes. "I-I ain't got no money with me, guys. I would, honest, but-"

"Yeah, right," Hutch cut him off, throwing the door shut - only to have it bounce right back at him. Ignoring his partner's annoyed glance, he slowly shoved it closed again and turned back at Eric. "We grabbed you robbing a liquor store, Eric, and you mean to tell us you have no money?"

"I threw it away!" Eric exclaimed excitedly. "When I saw you going after me, I threw it away in some of them alleys." Glancing down on himself, he turned a bit to each side. "Where d'you think I have it!"

Studying the young man's clothing - tight black jeans and a green shirt, no jacket - Hutch pursed his lower lip and looked at his partner. "He has a point there, Starsk."

The brunet visibly had to restrain himself, his jaws clenched tightly together, fingers drumming dangerously slowly on the roof of the LTD. When he lifted his index finger to point at Eric, the kid flinched, hard. "We're going to put that on your bill."

"S-sure," Eric nodded eagerly, suddenly looking much younger than Hutch had first assumed him to be. "Course."

"Well, okay, let's go find a cab then," Hutch said lightly, smiling at the other men as if they were about to hike up a mountain for fun. "I'll just lock my c..." Listening to his own echo, he trailed off, grinned sheepishly at Starsky's annoyed glance, and put his car keys back into his pocket. "On the other hand," he said, starting to walk across the street, "it's probably safe here, anyway."

"I'd say," Eric muttered. "Even the folks in this area aren't that desperate."

Chuckling, Starsky grinned first down at Eric, then over his head at Hutch, who frowned indignantly. "Bright boy, huh?"

Hutch cast him a grumpy glance that slid down to the ground at Starsky's feet quickly. "Try not to leave a trail all the way to the precinct, Buddy," he said.

Frowning questioningly, the smaller detective also looked down to see the smeared white sneaker-prints he left on his way. When his eyes found Eric Lardner again, they were flashing in bright, cold anger once more.

"That wasn't my fault!" the younger man hastily stated, a pleading gaze finding Hutch. "He crashed into that pillar all by himself!"

"I don't doubt it, kid," Hutch replied kindly. When his partner shot him a look that could kill, he returned it with a smile.

"Next time we take your car, you can run alone."

They walked down the street for some time, the still rising light following them from behind like a pink-bluish guide. Every so often, Starsky glanced back at his white footprints; they were weakening in intensity, but wouldn't quite vanish. When he turned back ahead again, Eric would always flinch, awaiting another angry shove. More often than not, he got it.

After fifteen minutes, Starsky checked his watch, then the still-nearly-empty street behind them. He sighed. "What is it with getting a cab in the morning, nowadays?" he grumbled. "Are there no college parties they have to come back into the city from!" When neither of the others answered, he turned to Eric. "And speaking of the time - don't you kids have hangovers to nurse at this hour! What were you doing robbing a store at five in the God- damned morning!"

Eric shrugged. "Needed money for the ride home."

The detectives exchanged a glance. "If you wanna hit him, Starsk, I'll look the other way," Hutch offered dryly.

"Thanks, I might hold you to th... There's a cab," Starsky informed them, as he'd once more looked over his shoulder and now turned to wave.

"See?" Hutch smiled. "The day's starting to make it all up, you'll see."

"I'll like this day when it's over," his friend replied curtly.

The cab pulled over, and Hutch opened the passenger's door, showing his badge. The driver frowned, suspicious. "What is this, traffic control or somethin´?"

"No, sir," Hutch smiled, "don't worry. We just have to inform you that we're police officers and are transporting a..." He glanced back up at Eric. "Person. Protocol," he added to further reassure the man, yet the driver's attention had already wandered over to Starsky, who was inspecting his lifted shoe with a disgusted frown.

"I ain't taking him," the cab driver said, pointing at the curly haired detective. "He'll ruin my seats."

Puzzled, Hutch looked at his friend. "Um..." he muttered wittily.

"It's all dried," Starsky said assuringly and ran a hand through his hair for proof, but only drew it out again with an even deeper furrow, studying the sticky, white paint covering his fingers. "Yuck," he observed and wiped it off on Eric's shirt, ignoring the kid's gasp of protest.

Hutch turned back to the driver, smiling sweetly. "See? It's all dried."

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About 70 minutes later, two very tired detectives Starsky and Hutchinson dragged themselves into the squad room at Metro, taking turns at pushing Eric Lardner in front of them.

"Do you believe all those weirdoes you see on a bus these days!" Starsky asked, dismayed. "When I was a kid, that was perfectly normal public transportation. I used to ride on the bus all the time."

"Maybe you just didn't notice it then," Hutch replied, shoving Eric down onto a chair behind his desk and exhaustedly sinking down in his own, rubbing his eyes, before reaching for a piece of paper for the arrest report. "Starsk," he asked in a mixture of a demand and a plea, "get coffee?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah," Starsky nodded and turned for the coffee machine and cups, but stopped when his look fell onto his white-strained hand. With a frustrated sigh, he drew it back again. "I'd better go get a shower, first," he told his partner.

"Great idea," a voice from somewhere in the room announced, and several of the early morning shift started to snicker.

"Hey Starsky," another colleague joined in, "you look like your car!"

Lifting his hands in surrender, Starsky turned to the room, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, okay. I got time tomorrow, then I'll laugh." Facing his partner again, he rolled his eyes at Hutch's amused grin.

The blond shrugged. "Told you so, Buddy."

Starsky grumbled something unintelligible and rubbed his face, only realizing he was using the paint-smeared hand when it was too late.

Hutch's head practically fell on top of his typewriter from his giggling.

Still staring grimly at his hand, Starsky let his shoulders slump. "I guess I can dare to say it now: this day can't possibly get any worse."

"Starsky! Hutchinson! My office. Now!" Captain Dobey's booming voice echoed through the room.

If possible, the expression of helpless misery increased on the brunet's white-streaked face.

Making a chiding gesture, Hutch shook his head curtly, as he walked by his friend, patting his shoulder once on his way. "Shouldn't have said that, Starsk."

They were just about to enter the office, when Eric Larden's voice kept them back. "Hey, officers! I'm allowed one call, ain't I?"

"Yeah," Hutch nodded, "sure. The phone's right there." And with that he closed the door behind them, leaving the cuffed young man staring at the telephone.

Inside Dobey's office, the detectives saw they weren't alone. A man in a suspiciously unsuspicious-looking gray suit leaned against the far wall behind Dobey's desk. At seeing Starsky, one of his brows climbed up in puzzled amusement, but he didn't speak.

Dobey, who'd marched back behind his desk, had yet to look up at them. "Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson, this is... What happened to you?" he interrupted himself, when he finally lifted his head, frowning at the darker half of the duo.

"Why, what d'you mean?" Starsky asked dryly.

Hutch couldn't help chuckling at that, but quickly straightened his face again at the scowl his Captain flashed him. "It was an accident, Cap'n," he explained. "We had to chase after a fleeing... suspect."

Growling something in the line of "hmpf" to himself, Dobey shot Starsky one last particularly chiding glare, as if assuming it had been the detective's intention to embarrass the department in front of a visitor, and finally half-waved behind him. "This is Major Leonard Perry from the National Security Agency. He wants to talk to you two."

The detectives exchanged a quick, confused look.

"Detectives," Perry now spoke, his voice strangely young, yet clearly used to giving orders and being obeyed. "Please have a seat." He lightly pushed himself off the wall and walked up in front of Dobey's desk, where he leaned against it, arms folded before his chest. "What we have to discuss may take some time. If it is," he smiled back at Dobey, "alright with you, Captain."

"Sure," Dobey muttered, but sharply lifted his head, when Starsky was about to sit down in the chair next to his partner. "Not you."

"What?"

"You're..." Dobey started and waved at the younger man, who glanced down on himself, understanding.

"It's all dried, Cap," he tried, sounding like a little kid, who didn't want to wash his hands before dinner. As if for help, he looked at Hutch, who all of a sudden seemed highly fascinated by the office's floor.

"Just don't touch anything," Dobey ordered instead of an answer and, without waiting for another reaction, motioned for Perry to continue.

Seeing his friend's shoulders shake ever so slightly with a suppressed chuckle, Starsky scowled down at Hutch, but obediently remained standing behind the chair.

"Before I start, I want it to be clear that what you will be told must not leave this room," Perry started. He didn't even wait for the agreeing nods, but continued. "The NSA needs you, Detectives, for an assignment that might put your lives in great danger."

He made a meaningful pause, studying first Starsky, then Hutch, whose ironic blank gaze slowly wandered up to meet his partner's.

"Sounds like a job offer hard to resist, doesn't it?"

Starsky smiled. "And," he turned to Perry, "you aren't putting your own people..." He lifted his hands to indicate quotation marks, "'in great danger' because...?"

"We don't have the right men for this assignment," the Major explained. His expressionless mask of serious dignity couldn't quite hide how much the two younger men annoyed him.

"Who'd be what?" Hutch quipped. "Suicidal?"

In the safety of his desk-space, Dobey sighed.

"Trained undercover specialists," Perry answered coolly, casting the blond detective a piercing glare, "with...unconventional looks."

Surprised, Hutch half-turned in his chair to look his standing partner up and down, finding Starsky doing the same.

"You want us because we're attractive?" Starsky finally asked.

Keeping up the show, just to get on the Major's nerves, Hutch lifted his brows as if flattered, when he looked back at Perry.

"No," came the unnerved answer, "but because you two hot-shots look like hippies."

The wave of dismayed shock washing through the room was enough to send Dobey discreetly rubbing his nose in an attempt to hide an amused grin.

"We do?" Hutch asked in a small voice, his eyes wandering up, as if he was trying to check out his own hairline.

"Enough for what we've planned for you, anyway," Perry answered, ignoring the act in front of him (and Starsky bending forward slightly, as if he had just found out he actually wore bell bottom jeans) and grabbed a folder from behind him on Dobey's desk. He started to give it to Starsky, but, catching the shiny white streaks on the brunet's hands, handed it over to Hutch instead.

"BM Platoon?" the blond read the title on the first page and frowned. "What's that?"

"BM," Perry started, "stands for Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhoff; they were German communist terrorists."

"Yeah, I heard about them," Hutch said, his frown deepening as he searched his memory. "But I thought they killed themselves in jail... last year?"

"They did," Perry nodded. "This group," he nodded at the folder, "was founded by an American exchange student, Darren Nicolas, whom they'd met in Berlin, sometime between 1970-72. Back in the US, he organized armory deals in Arabic countries for them, before they were arrested in Germany. After that, he founded this little American version of their original 'Red Army Front'."

"But those guys were anti-American," Hutch pointed out.

"So is Darren Nicolas," Perry said. "He is not to be underestimated. He's smart, reads a lot. Well-educated, graduated in Yale. He kept any connections to communist groups very well hidden. We never would have noticed him, if he hadn't traveled back to Germany and tried to visit Baader in jail. He was refused - they'd been held in isolation - but the German security services reported the incident to us, and once we checked him out... Well, let's say, the United States has been at war with this man for quite some time now, without even being aware of it."

Having bent over his friend's shoulder to read the page, too, Starsky whistled sarcastically. "That boy has sold more machine guns in two years than my uncle has sold toys in all his life."

"To communist countries," Hutch added. "Smart. Weaken the enemy without being even seen."

Perry nodded. "Once we found out about his 'Platoon', we sent a man inside under the name of Ethan Gerardy. He's been with them for five months now, keeping us informed about the group's activities. A few weeks ago, he reported a change in tactics."

"What, now they're buying?" Starsky asked grimly.

"Not exactly. More like business seemed to have closed down. They're planning their coming out. At least some."

"What good is there in having an ideology, when you can't tell anyone?" Hutch nodded.

"What're they going to do?" his partner asked.

"That," Perry replied gloomily, "is the million dollar question, and the reason we want you two to join Gerardy."

The detectives exchanged a puzzled look. "Wait a second," Starsky said. "You have this cover guy in there, and you know all that." He paused, but when Perry didn't speak, tilted his head forward expectantly. "Well, what d'you need us for?"

Perry sighed. "The problem is that Gerardy had orders to only stick to Nicolas, and that's what he did. But, see, Nicolas' main group has its headquarters on the east cost. The Californian section is rather new. Gerardy barely ever saw them in the past months, and his reports about them didn't read exactly worrisome. They're mostly a bunch of unemployed old college grads and, well, old..."

"Hippies," the detectives concluded in unison, nodding understandingly.

"Yes. Though they have all followed Nicolas' ideals, Gerardy believes they have by now turned into a whole separate group, a much more dangerous one than the original BM Platoon."

"Let me get this straight," Starsky cut in, frowning. "This Nicolas guy is a trained, experienced terrorist, yes?"

"Yes."

"And this Californian section of his army is just a bunch of civilist losers."

"I understand your question, Detective," Perry answered. "But if you'll think about it, our concern is very reasonable. Organized Marxist terrorists have tactics; they function like national armies. As long as we play our cards carefully and not make our presence known too much, we can keep Nicolas under control, and in freedom he's of greater use to us than behind bars." He paused for emphasis, then with a sigh added, "Civilists, though, are unpredictable."

Grave silence followed.

"When I was in college," Hutch finally said, his voice dead serious, "there were those guys, who wanted to burn a live dog with Napalm on campus. To show the effects of the Napalm being used in Vietnam. They were students, not in any political party, just very convinced that they were being right."

Starsky stared at him incredulously. "They burned the dog alive!"

"No," Hutch replied. "They wanted to, but they were stopped, before they could really start."

"That's the sort of folks you'll meet there," Perry said. "Fanatics, but unorganized."

"Why doesn't Nicolas keep them under control?" Hutch asked. "It cannot be in his interest to have the amateurs planning to ruin his tactics of laying low."

"He's not in the US," the Major explained. "He left for the German Democratic Republic three weeks ago. That we found out about his Californians stepping out of line was a coincidence. Gerardy had just came here to check on them, routine. Their... structure, or rather the lack of it, and their talking alarmed him enough to give the order to pull a fullstop on them."

"But not on the 'Platoon' as a whole?" Starsky asked suspiciously.

Casting him a cool look, Major Perry thought about this. When he finally answered, his words seemed carefully chosen, his tone strained. "Like I said, Darren Nicolas has proven to be quite useful for us. We think it safer to have him in the open, where we can see him, than organizing things underground. What we don't want are well-armed, unguided, unorganized groups of stoned dropouts, whose morals have been severely screwed up."

"But if we find out what they're planning and bust them," Starsky asked further, "won't the big boss get suspicious?"

"No, he'll get careful," came the stern answer, "about who he recruits. That will only act in the interest of us all."

Hutch had already detected a change of mood in his friend, and he wasn't surprised when Starsky took an almost-threatening step forward at that; no funny-looking paint streaks were able to weaken the air of suppressed rage surrounding him. "I'll tell you what'd act in my interest, Major, and that'd be no communist terrorists being kept 'out in the open' on purpose by the NSA." The calmness with which the words were said didn't betray the angry accusation behind them.

For a moment, tensed silence filled the room like smoke, and Hutch found himself looking from his friend to the man he focused on and back, then over to Dobey, who watched the scene as expectantly.

"Well, in that case, Detective Hutchinson," Perry replied quietly at last, "let's just say you're not to decide what acts in the nation's interest."

"Starsky," Starsky said tonelessly, not taking his eyes off the other man, while he pointed down at his partner, who gave a small wave and a smile. "He's Hutchinson."

Perry didn't even follow the curly-haired detective's gesture. He simply smiled in faked politeness. "I don't give a damn."

Hutch's eyes darted back to Dobey. The silent plea for help hadn't been necessary, though, as the Captain had already jumped to his feet, before his hot-tempered detective had had the chance for a - most assuredly physical - reply. "With all due respect, Major, if you want to send my men into some lunatic's out-of-control bunch of other lunatics, you should give a damn about who they are."

Visibly impressed, Starsky cast his Captain a proud look, then turned to Perry again, folded his arms in front of his chest and pointed at Dobey with his chin. "What he said."

Glancing from one detective to the other, Perry at last slightly lifted his hands. "I apologize." He paused as if awaiting a thank you-card. None came. "So, Detectives, are you willing to take the job? Since the NSA has no authorities in regional police forces, I cannot order you to do it. All I can do is ask."

Hutch stood, folder still in hand, and cast his friend a quiet look. 'What d'you think?'

"A 'please' would have been nice," Starsky said, as if in answer to the blond's unspoken question.

"Starsky," Dobey growled chidingly, but Major Perry didn't seem very impressed.

"Please," he said dryly. "Your country needs you."

Both detectives groaned quietly, rolling their eyes in unison. "Yeah, okay," Hutch quickly said, lifting his hand, "we'll do it, if you promise to save us the clichés."

"Good," Perry smiled, seemingly snapping a mask of contented, calm politeness back on. "I'm glad to hear that. Now," he busily checked his watch, "I don't have time to go into the necessary details concerning your cover stories and the how and when right now, but I suggest we'll meet in my office here in the city, later this afternoon." Expectantly, he looked from one to the other. "Two o'clock alright with you, Detectives?"

Hutch didn't even bother looking at Starsky; he could practically sense his friend's face falling. It was seven in the morning, their night shift had ended almost two hours ago, just before they'd surprised Eric Lardner, the liquor store robber, and their next one started at five.

"Sure," Starsky answered for them, and only Hutch heard the muttered "Who needs to sleep, anyway?" that followed.

"Fine," Perry smiled once more, turned to shake Dobey's head, then Hutch's. When he reached Starsky, he gestured a half-hearted wink, shrugging apologetically, and at last started for the door.

"Major?" Hutch's voice held him back.

"Yes?"

"Just one more thing... Why d'you think we'll make a connection to those people, when your own man hasn't?" "

"As I told you, he hasn't been among them much."

"Yeah, okay," Starsky cut in, "but neither will we."

Perry thought about that and finally drew up his shoulders a tad in a regretful-looking gesture. "The truth is, they have too much respect for him. He's Darren Nicolas' right hand. Basically - they fear him."

"And you don't think they could gain too much respect for us too?" Starsky asked.

For the first time since they'd met the Major, a real, obvious emotion crossed his face, as his eyes visibly flashed, one corner of his mouth twitching dangerously, while he let an inspecting glance wander down the two younger men. "I... um... I'll see you later, Detectives. Have a nice day." And with that, he was gone, as quickly as the door would open.

In the remaining stillness, Starsky and Hutch looked at each other, each one down himself and back, while they turned to face Dobey. "Wow," Starsky stated, playfully impressed. "I think that's the first time I've ever been insulted with just a look."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," his partner quipped, but didn't wait for a reply. "Did you notice he never told us their cover guy's real name?"

The smaller man shrugged. "Names didn't seem to particularly matter to him."

A frown was starting on Hutch's forehead; he hadn't even listened. "Something about the whole thing feels weird, don't you think? Maybe they don't trust their own man anymore. Five months is a long time."

"Could be," Starsky agreed. "Though that wouldn't have sprung to my mind on the cue of 'something weird'. Can you believe they choose to have a known international terrorist on the loose! Whatever happened to the real security agents, the good guys? James Bond."

"He left for England," Hutch commented dryly, so lost in his own thoughts he didn't even take the time to fully roll his eyes at that. "You know something? I really don't feel so good about this. Not at all." He shook his head.

"Is that why we said yes?"

Casting him a glance, Hutch tilted his head backwards in surprise. "No, that was because our country needs us."

"Ah, yes. Right."

"Are you two heroes through now?" Dobey's sudden grumpy question cut off any further joking.

"Absolutely," Hutch assured and flashed his superior a smile that his partner instantly copied.

Silence stretched, the Captain's gaze changing into expectation, as his fingers started to slowly drum on the table.

"Oh." Nodding slowly to indicate he understood, Hutch lifted his index finger. "Right. C'mon, Buddy," he waved, turning for the door.

"Hey," Starsky suddenly started with a frown, when they were almost out of the office, "d'you really think we look like-" But the rest was cut off by Hutch dragging the door closed behind them.

Left alone in the relaxing quiet of his office, Dobey let go of a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as if for an answer. "Why do they always have to say, 'yes' to everything!"

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"I can't believe someone would do such a thing!" Starsky stated some time later, when they were at his place. A nice uniformed patrol team had driven them there, after they'd finished the arrest report on Eric Lardner (who had turned out to indeed be a law student), and Starsky was getting ready for a much needed shower, plucking disgustedly at his t-shirt, which had had become glued to his chest by the finally-dried paint.

"I didn't think you'd hold such a speech," Hutch replied lazily from the living room, where he'd plopped down on the couch, too tired to even reach out for the remote control on the table. Regretfully, he focused on it through exhausted eyes, as if trying to move it with sheer brain power. "Thought you didn't like dogs."

"So? I don't like my landlady, but still I wouldn't set her on fire."

"I don't think they held grudges against that particular dog, y'know," Hutch said. "It was just any dog."

Starsky's head appeared in the doorway. "Okay - I wouldn't burn any landlady." His gaze fell upon something white on his floor, and, bending a bit closer, he saw that it was the faintest footprint. "I would make an exception for inanimate things, though," he grumbled grimly. "Like cars."

"Oh, shit," Hutch muttered. Until that comment, he had not moved or looked at his friend, but he now lifted one hand to rub his eyes. "I forgot my car."

"I haven't," his friend replied mercilessly and turned back into the room. Two minutes later, the sound of water running filled the apartment.

Bending his head back in an attempt to look at the phone in the kitchen from his position, which was impossible, Hutch contemplated using the opportunity to quickly call the Auto Club, while his partner wasn't hovering around him, shooting off comments.

Yet... he just couldn't seem to bring himself to get off that couch. It wasn't that the shift that lay behind them had been a particularly stressful one; in fact, it'd been a quiet night, nothing more than checking out a few suspicious places, a bar quarrel or two and, of course, Eric Lardner. But still, he felt like he could sleep for a day. Or at least past two in the afternoon. Not aware that his eyes had already drifted shut, he sighed. Whose God-damned idea had it been to say 'yes' to this great new assignment, anyway! Communist college grads - uuuhhh, this was going to be so much fun, and he knew it!

He almost fell off the couch when something damp suddenly landed on his face with unnecessary force. Reaching up to tear the towel away, Hutch glared after his friend, who had walked past the couch into the kitchen.

"Don't fall asleep like that," Starsky advised, "or your neck's going to kill ya later. Besides, you shouldn't fall asleep, anyway, for when you fall asleep, I fall asleep, and then we'll miss our appointment with Major Smartass." Carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, he returned to the couch and, without looking, plopped down on it, so that Hutch had to quickly lift his legs. Unimpressed, he immediately rested them across Starsky's thighs, accepting the mug his friend handed him.

"And that'd be bad, because...?" he muttered.

Casting him a glance, Starsky shrugged. "Dunno. You were the one who wanted to be there for your country. Not to mention you told him about your dog-burning friends, which really set him off." He paused, took a sip from his coffee and, leaning his head back, studied the blond again. "I still don't believe people actually wanted to do such a thing! Where you there?"

"What, when they tried to burn Spot?"

Starsky's dismayed gaze snapped back from where he'd looked into his coffee. "I thought you said he didn't have a name!"

"It," Hutch replied calmingly, "didn't have one."

"Not. Funny," his friend informed him grimly.

"Yeah, I was there. Everyone was, y'know, it was around lunchtime, really crowded." He shook his head, gazing off into the faded past for a moment. "We didn't even understand what they were doing, until some professor stopped them."

"God. Didn't the poor thing wail like hell?"

"They'd sedated it first," Hutch explained. "Y'know, that's what they said later. 'It wouldn't have suffered; it was sedated'," he mimicked a surprised tone.

"Real humanitarians, your college fellows," Starsky commented dryly.

"Yeah," the blond nodded. "I'm pretty sure the only reason they didn't use a kid for that was that none of them had baby brothers." He shook his head. "They were really bad weirdoes, let me tell you. And they weren't even alone. I remember this guy from my medicine class, Ronald Whatever, who demanded we all go on strike to protest their arrest."

"And did you?"

"Not really. We offered to have him locked in a cage on campus, to show the inhumanity of jails, but he refused. Even though we said we'd sedate him."

Starsky snickered. "I didn't know college life was that dangerous."

"Oh, yeah," Hutch nodded in faked exaggeration. "You vets have no idea!"

Laughing, Starsky patted Hutch's feet as if for reassurance.

"But, honest, Starsk," the blond said after a moment, the humor having left his tone, "they were idiots, no doubt, but not dullards. They were smart kids, and they thought they were right. If they'd have gotten the chance - they'd have killed people for their cause, too. They would have burned that dog alive, if they hadn't been stopped."

His partner studied him seriously. "You think our civilist losers are planning something big, don't you?"

Hutch didn't answer; the look he shot Starsky was enough.

"Well, there'll be no dog burnings, I can tell you that," the brunet stated with a determined nod, and Hutch chuckled lightly.

"I'm sure any pets they might have will feel much safer with you around, Buddy."

Starsky smiled, but a shadow started to crawl over his features, as his gaze seemed to be drawn into some long-faded past as if by invisible fingers. "I don't get this, Hutch, y'know? I mean..." He trailed off briefly, glancing at his friend with a sadness in his eyes that Hutch had seldom seen there. "That wasn't something that needed to be carried over here."

Understanding, Hutch felt his heart fill with helpless sympathy. Since his hand was too far away for a real squeeze, he flapped it lightly against his friend's forearm.

Noticing the gesture, Starsky smiled, blinked his gaze away. When he looked back at Hutch, whatever memories had caught up with him seemed once more gathered together, stashed away safely behind playfully twinkling midnight blues which narrowed a bit under a frown, as the curly head was tilted to one side. "You know something, Blondie?"

Catching the imitation of his own usual tone, Hutch shook his head, expecting the wisecrack that followed.

"You could do with a haircut."

The blond rolled his eyes. "Starsk, I hate to break news to you, Buddy, but when Perry said we look unconventional, he was really talking about you."

"That so?" Starsky asked indignantly. "I'm not the one wearing bell-bottom corduroy."

With the hint of a somewhat nervous frown appearing on his face, Hutch glanced at his pants ever so briefly, before looking at his smugly grinning partner. "But you're the one looking like Grizzly Adams."

Mouth open to shoot back a reply, Starsky suddenly stopped himself, as he blinked upwards at a loose stray of still-damp, curly hair that had fallen over his eyes. "Okay," he said in a compromising tone, "maybe we both could do with a haircut."

Thinking about that for the briefest moment, Hutch nodded at last and held his empty mug up. "Right." He yawned. "And more coffee."

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Drop-dead tired, the two detectives sat in Major Leonard Perry's office a few hours later, taking turns with wide yawns, as they waited for their belated host to show.

"Did you see how cute that secretary was?" Starsky asked in a tone so tired anyone but his best friend would have mistaken for being bored. "How come a flake like Perry has a girl like her working for him!"

"Maybe we work for the wrong company," Hutch yawned.

"Maybe she's a spy," Starsky suggested.

Hutch cast him an expressionless look. "Maybe you shouldn't watch late night thrillers anymore."

"Maybe you're getting on my nerves," Starsky grumbled. He let go of a tired breath and checked his watch for the hundredth time that minute. "What's he doing? He's ten minutes late."

"Savin' the country," Hutch muttered with tired sarcasm.

"Oh, you really think he went on a vacation?"

Hutch grinned.

At that moment, the door was swiftly opened, energetic footsteps introducing Major Perry's entrance long before the detectives had even found the willpower to turn in their chairs. Perry's "Good afternoon, Detectives" came from behind them, so they only smiled half-heartedly in response, when Perry had already lowered himself on a chair behind his massive desk.

"Good seeing you again," the Major continued with unpleasant eagerness and smiled toothily.

Starsky opened his mouth to reply something, but was cut off by his wiser partner. "Yep."

Looking from one detective to the other, obviously just now taking in the deep shadows under tired eyes and strained features, Perry let his wide smile fade a bit and obviously decided to leave out some of his other greeting phrases and instead move on to the core of the discussion. "From your presence here, I take it you had no second thoughts about agreeing to the assignment." He waited, brows lifted, as if it had been a question.

Starsky looked at his partner, then back to Perry, and shrugged. "We're here."

Seeing an unsure frown starting on Perry's forehead, Hutch added, "Just tired. Never mind."

"Well..." Another inspecting glance. "Good. I have here," Perry continued, lifting a handful of folders from his desk, "some files about the known members of the Californian platoon. " He handed them over to them. "So that you can get to know the people you'll have to put up with. I spoke to Gerardy after our conversation this morning, and we've decided upon sending one of you up there the day after tomorrow."

"Up there?" Starsky asked.

"They have a sort of camp, if you want to call it that, south of Monterey, a few miles from the coast."

To his partner's hidden amusement, a suspicious shadow crossed Starsky's eyes. "A 'sort of camp'?" he asked. "Like tents and fireplaces and bushes and hunting bears for breakfast?"

"Like cabins," Perry answered annoyedly.

"'Kay," the brunet nodded slowly. "That's alright. I guess," he added in a mutter, looking up as Hutch reassuringly patted his shoulder.

"Like I said," Perry went on, ignoring the silent banter taking place in front of him, "Gerardy and I believe it'll be best to have you enter the group separately, so as to not draw any suspicion towards you. You shouldn't act like you know each other. According to Gerarady, they're very trusting, if someone has been sent to them by Nicolas - which will be the case, since Gerarady is going to introduce each of you as a newbie - but they do have problems acknowledging already established relationships. They want to have met each other only via the shared idea." At the detectives´ puzzled expressions, he shrugged in a 'What'd I tell you?' kind of way.

"Gerardy has," he continued after a moment, checking some notes on his desk, "spread the word that they need an armory specialist - Nicolas' order - and he'll introduce you," he pointed at Hutch, "first to them, in two days, and..." Again, he checked his notes, "Hutchinson about a week later with some other expla-"

"Um," Hutch interrupted him, "I'm Hutchinson."

Lifting his head, brows furrowed, Perry looked at him. "You sure?"

Hutch just looked at him blankly for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Quite."

"Oh. So you're Starsky then?" Perry asked, turning to Starsky, who nodded in annoyance. "Right," the Major said with a smug smile. "Now I remember. I didn't recognize you without the white stripe."

Starsky opened his mouth, but at sensing his partner's glance on him, closed it firmly, settling for a nod.

Unaware of the verbal attack he had just been spared, Perry flapped through his notes, as he went on, "Okay. Starsky." Having found what he'd looked for, he cast the brunet a questioning look. "You been to 'Nam?"

"Uh... yeah."

"Good. We'll have you introduced as their new machine guns specialist."

"Oh. Um, I'm... I'm not sure 'specialist' is the right-" Starsky started, but was cut off by Perry with a wink.

"Don't worry, Detective. You're dealing with a bunch of well-off dropouts here. They can't tell a gun from a can opener. You know how to take a machine gun apart and put it back together, don't you?"

"Sure."

"That'll suffice," Perry waved assuringly. "I bet you'll be their hero."

Listening with growing unease, Hutch couldn't help thinking that the 'your lives will be put in grave danger' assignment they had agreed to that morning had seemed to change into a piece of cake too fast to trust it. A side-glance at his partner told him he wasn't the only one wondering.

"Do whatever preparation you usually do," Perry said pleasantly, pointing at the folders he'd given them both. "Get to know the flakes, and Gerardy will collect you on Thursday morning. He'll leave on Saturday for Seattle again and come to collect you," and, again he pointed at Hutch, this time with an apologetic smile, "Hutchinson?"

Hutch nodded with barely-hidden irritation.

"Yes, you," Perry continued, "a few days later, something like Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. We'll let you know." He looked down at his notes again, smiled contentedly, and lifted his gaze. "Any questions?"

"Your man will be in Seattle over the weekend and then get straight down here," Hutch said without any introduction.

Perry nodded. "To pick you up, yes."

"Yeah, I got that. What I'm wondering about is... Doesn't that mean we'll be leaving Starsky on his own for days? With no possible way of contacting anyone?"

Perry studied him silently for a moment, his smile gone, contemplating his answer. "Yes. Does that present any problems?"

"Well, no," Hutch answered sharply, "except that I don't like it."

Perry grinned, looking decidedly pissed. "I'm so sorry to hear that. I wasn't aware you're his mother."

For once, it was Starsky who had to quickly cut in in order to keep things at a non-insulting level. "Major," he hastily said, before Hutch had even thought up a fitting reply, "no need to..." Realizing he was about to get pretty insulting himself, too, he swallowed the rest of the sentence and instead added, "You have to understand that the BCPD plays undercover cases differently. We have to get used to your ways of operating first."

Perry didn't even look at him, gaze still focused on Hutch, whose boiling anger was hardly contained. "Then I suggest you hurry," he said sarcastically, and let his eyes wander over to meet Starsky. "For you have only two days left. And now, please excuse me, I'm awaited at a meeting."

The conversation was over. Without looking back or another word, the major stood and swiftly left the room, the door falling closed behind him with a soft click.

Starsky and Hutch were alone.

Silence passed, stretching into seconds, seeing neither man move. They remained sitting, with their arms folded in front of them, as they stared jointly at the major's desk.

"I say," Starsky finally spoke, his voice calm, emotionless, "we put dog poop in his desk drawer."

His partner snickered, not looking at him. "Since that beats my idea of just taking the whole office apart... Okay."

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'Boy, am I glad I never had to wear glasses as a teen,' Hutch thought, casting his mirror-image a last sympathetic look, before taking off the thin-framed glasses again he'd finally settled on for Philip Hunter, his 'BM Platoon' alter ego.

It was Tuesday morning, and he was busy (and glad to be busy) packing for his trip up to the platoon's camp later that evening. After Starsky's departure on Thursday, he had been left with pretty much nothing to do, since there was no use in creating an undercover persona while he didn't know what tasks Gerardy had thought up for his character.

With his typical lack of mercy, Captain Dobey had, upon being informed about the situation, presented him with his and his partner's unfinished paperwork (ninety percent of that being Starsky's - if you asked Hutch.) and for the better of the last three days, he had spent his time proving the rumor to be right that no one, not even his best friend, could read Starsky's notes. Thank God Perry had called that morning - Hutch couldn't help thinking he'd be ready to join any random group without necessarily being undercover...

In his free time, he'd worked on reading his way into the group via the files Perry had left them. They were a rather small bunch of people, four men and a women in their early-to-mid-thirties, and with one exception, their biographies read strikingly alike. They had all been arrested - or at least suspended - during their college days, due to some protest activities. Only one of them, the former founder of a political college party at Berkeley, Brighton Dobbs, had actually graduated; all the others were dropouts. As far as the files went, they had never worked in a regular job, except for serving at their parents' country clubs (if that counted as a real job). Reading his way through those people's stories, Hutch had had the strange feeling he knew these folks. Not them, specifically, but their... kind. He'd made a bet with himself that, when he saw them, he would be able to tell who was who without needing to be introduced.

Walking back to the bed, where a half-packed sports bag waited for him, he picked up another t-shirt to stash it inside - unfolded, of course - and hesitated, when he noticed it belonged to Starsky. Red with a white phrase written on it. Hutch grinned. It wasn't the first time he wondered how his partner might be doing among this very unfamiliar crowd of people. Being undercover with a street gang would probably be less uncomfortable for his curly-haired friend, Hutch mused, his grin taking on a somewhat gloating tinge. Trying to picture his friend among all those 'just-talk's had proven to be a good way to keep the nagging concern at bay. He stashed the t-shirt into the bag.

"So, who d'you figure you're gonna be, when we meet again?" Starsky had asked on the day of his departure, his neatly packed army bag standing ready in front of his feet, preparing to leave both his apartment and Hutch behind.

Hutch had shrugged. "Dropout, probably. The cool part's already taken." He'd waved at his friend regretfully.

Starsky had grinned. "Sorry to break the news to ya, Brains, but you basically are a dropout, y'know?"

Hutch had just returned the grin, nodding slowly, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Yeah. Thanks for reminding me. And you have fun with them, Buddy. I'm sure they'll love you."

"Don't worry about me," Starsky had said. "I'm the tough vet. When they get on my nerves, I'm entitled to kick their butts."

"Oh, boy," Hutch had sighed, rubbing his eyes, as if tired. "Just don't overdo it." He'd looked at him again. "Okay? I mean that, Starsk. Think you can try to stay out of trouble until I get there?"

"Sure," his friend had smiled reassuringly. "I can try."

Another sigh, but Hutch had wisely kept from commenting on that. He'd just said a very dry-humored "Great." and added, "Got everything? Badge?"

"Yep," Starsky had replied in his best army manner, straightening his posture.

"Toothbrush?"

"Yep."

"Name?"

"Um..." Starsky had muttered, caught, but then had snapped his fingers. "Going to be introduced."

"Starsk-"

"No, it's gonna look way more credible that way." And with that he'd picked up his bag, doing a mock salute before opening the door. "See you in a few, Blintz."

"Yeah. See you... Stranger," Hutch had said, still looking none-too-happy about this part of the plan.

Starsky had crooked his lips, thinking. "Hey, that could be a cool name." At Hutch's expression, he'd grinned once more, then had patted the blond's shoulder and turned to leave.

"Just be careful, Strange," Hutch had called after him, but had just received a 'don't worry' wave.

He only hoped his partner had kept his promise.

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About an hour later, Detective Kenneth Hutchinson had completed his transformation into Philip Hunter, college smartass, and was sitting in a cell at some police station Perry had picked for the meeting. The plan was to have Ethan Gerardy get this newest 'platoon' member straight out of jail, where Philip Hunter had been brought after an - if you asked Hutch - unnecessarily rough arrest.

Absently trying to rub his aching wrists, where the cuffs bit into his flesh, Hutch checked the clock at the far wall of the cell and sighed grumpily. Obviously following a quite irritating characteristic, the Major was late. Hutch couldn't help wondering if he was being left there some time longer than necessary on purpose. But then - it wasn't that the Major had any real reason to despise the two Bay City cops, was it?

Hutch grinned to himself, and as if on cue, the door was finally opened, revealing Major Perry and a man about Hutch's height with straight black hair and hard features, his ice blue eyes appearing almost soft, like a cloudy blue sky, yet cold at the same time. He wore a black, spotless suit, complete with a red tie.

Hutch stood, looking at Perry expectantly, whose eyes fell upon the blond's cuffed hands. Without any greeting, he stated, "Can't say I don't find this picture highly satisfying."

His gaze wandering off briefly, Hutch grimaced slightly, before casting the major a convincingly innocent look. "About your drawer... That was Starsky's idea."

"Funny," Perry grumbled, producing the key from his pocket, but handed it to the other man. "That's not what he said."

Trying his very best to suppress a grin, Hutch wisely kept his silence and instead held his hands out for the man in the suit to finally get the cuffs off him. "You're Gerardy?" he asked.

The man nodded and took a step back to shake Hutch's hand. "Call me Ethan," he said with a smile, then frowned as he tried to recall Hutch's name. "Um..."

"Phil," Hutch helped him with his cover name. "Hunter."

"Right," Ethan waved his index finger at him and let a brief glance wander down the detective's form. "You guys are really good, d'you know that?" he asked, honestly impressed. "Your partner too. Fit in there perfectly." He looked back at Perry, who stood with his arms crossed, waiting impatiently. "Good men you sent me, Leonard."

"I'm so glad you're happy with them," Perry grumbled, his piercing eyes finding Hutch once more, before he opened the door and left without any further word.

Gerardy looked after him, then with a wide grin back at Hutch. "He hates your guts," he informed him happily.

Hutch shrugged boyishly. "Can't say I mind."

Gerardy laughed, holding the door open for them. "Know something? I think I like you, Hunter."

"Phil," Hutch corrected him half-heartedly, but wasn't heard.

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"So, how's my partner?" Hutch asked, when they were in Gerardy's car some time later, on the road out of the city.

"Funny, when stoned," Gerardy answered dryly and, at the blond's wide eyes added, "Word of advice: don't eat Zadie's cookies." A somewhat smug smile crossed his eyes. "I may have forgotten to tell your friend."

"Zadie, that'd be Susanna Morgan?" Hutch asked, meaning the one woman the files had mentioned. The piece of - probably highly embarrassing - information regarding his friend he safely kept in his mind, knowing he wouldn't miss an opportunity like that to tease his friend for a million bucks.

Gerardy nodded. "I see you've done your homework, Detective."

"I had some time to spare on my hands," Hutch muttered in response. "Do you have any idea what we may be facing by now?"

"You mean what the Looneys are planning?"

"Is that what you call them?" Hutch asked with a puzzled smile.

Catching the hidden tone in the blond's voice, Gerardy cast him a quick glance. "I admit it; I haven't been around them much. I guess the Major let you in on most of the information."

Hutch nodded. "You didn't think they'd be that much of a problem, huh?" he asked, understanding.

The other man sighed affirmatively, reaching up to loosen his tie. "To tell you the truth, Hunter-" Either he didn't see Hutch's slight cringe at his alias' last name or he ignored it - "I screwed up majorly there. I was so focused on playing Darren's shadow, I never even paid enough attention to the Looneys to learn all their names. Your friend probably knows more about them by now than I do. I've had my hands full with tracking down an armory deal up in Canada last month, and when I stopped by at Camp California, Zadie and Dobbs were all over me with this 'necessity to tell the public' and stuff." Taking his hands off the steering wheel, he waved them briefly in a mocking gesture.

"But you didn't let Nicolas handle it," Hutch stated.

Gerardy threw him a quick look. "No." There was a short pause, then, with what to Hutch sounded like exhausted guilt, Gerardy admitted, "They're getting on my nerves. Okay? I want them out of the way. I can't concentrate on what's going on with the real platoons, when those wannabe terrorists are giving me constant cause to worry. They're able to do something really stupid, like, in the country, and that could endanger our other operation as well."

Hutch watched him for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was calm, cool. "I don't expect you to tell me about your other operation, Ethan. My partner and I are interested in the something really stupid they could do in the country."

Surprised, Gerardy looked at him, then smiled. "Good thing we have that settled," he said.

Hutch nodded.

'Camp California' lay so close to the coast you could smell the sea, the whole area reminding Hutch more of some rich family's summer residence than of an actual camp. There was a small wooden cabin, complete with a wide, furnitured porch, an olive green army tent some steps away - and an old, white house with two floors.

A rusty old jeep stood neatly parked in front of the house, but otherwise the place seemed empty when Gerardy pulled over, parking his car next to the jeep. He turned to Hutch. "Welcome to Looneytown," he smiled ironically and waved at the scenery. "You look just like your partner did."

"Well," Hutch started, "w-we'd expected something a bit less..."

"Large?" Gerardy helped, and Hutch nodded. "I know," he said and opened the door, "but, remember, they're all used to country clubs. You wouldn't think they'd settle for caves, would you? And, by the way, Hunter," he added the faked name with emphasis, looking directly at Hutch, "you wouldn't, either. Don't forget that."

Understanding, Hutch nodded curtly, drew in a deep, bracing breath and opened the passenger door. Outside, he caught his bag as Gerardy threw it at him while banging the trunk closed again and walking ahead to give the newcomer the grand tour.

They started in the house, whose door was unlocked. "Okay," Gerardy started, pointing around with curt, almost hasty gestures, "that's what we call the lobby, here's where everything happens."

It was a large, almost empty room that had once been the living room. Huge windows bathed it in the golden, late-afternoon light, and there were only a couple of large wooden chairs and a few sitting mattresses in it. With no wall or door in between them, it melted into the kitchen, which consisted of a breakfast bar, a table, and three half-broken chairs.

"Kitchen," Gerardy said unnecessarily. "Upstairs," he pointed at the stairs starting in one corner, "is where Dobbs and Zadie have their rooms, and yours is there too, I think."

Looking around, trying to take it all in and feeling like a kid again, back when he was sent to visit family members. Hutch placed his bag on the floor, nodding, when Gerardy looked at him as if for a reaction.

"There," Gerardy continued, pointing at a corner, behind which another door hid, "is-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the door was opened, and a young man wearing only boxers and some rock band's t-shirt shuffled out into the bright lobby, his messed up flaxen hair making it pretty clear that he had only now gotten out of bed. Upon seeing the two other men, he waved lazily. From his files Hutch assumed this was one of the younger, richer group members, a San Francisco kid named Norton McLean.

"McLean," Gerardy introduced him in a tone that left little room for interpretation. McLean clearly wasn't his favorite.

"Hey," McLean muttered, looking Hutch up and down.

"Good Morning," Hutch quipped.

"Mac, that's Hunter," Gerardy said, pointing at Hutch with his thumb. "He's new."

McLean nodded, unimpressed. "Cool," he mumbled, grabbed an open can of orange-juice from the breakfast bar and shuffled back behind his corner. The sound of his door falling closed followed.

Hutch glanced at Gerardy, who shrugged. "There are more and less dangerous people living here," he explained. "Let's go find the rest."

They left the house through the backdoor that led from the kitchen onto the paths down to the cabin. A young girl of maybe twenty walked up the small hill to the house, heading towards the two men. Upon seeing them, she grinned and sped up her pace. Even from a distance, Hutch could see she was extremely pretty, slim, with long blond hair that flooded down from her head like a curtain of silk. All she wore was a blue mini skirt and a bright pink bikini top.

"Oh," Gerardy said, lifting his index finger, "forgot to mention-"

"Hi, Ethan!" the girl called out, audibly chewing gum, and came to a halt in front of them. "Who's your friend?" Her smile grew toothy, as she looked Hutch up and down quite appreciatively.

Blushing a shade, Hutch smiled sheepishly. "I'm-"

"Hunter," Ethan interrupted him hastily, "that's Pixie. Pix, why don't you be a good girl and go tell the others we have a newbie here?"

Not taking her eyes off the detective, Pixie batted her eyelashes. "Maybe because I don't wanna be a good girl?" she asked huskily.

Rolling his eyes, Gerardy stepped forward to grab her shoulders, drag her away from Hutch and turn her around, giving her a little shove, as he said, "Okay, then how about doing it because otherwise I'll be pissed?"

"Party pooper," she grumbled and threw Hutch a smile, before wandering off again. "See ya, Hunter."

Hutch only lifted his fingers slightly, wide questioning eyes finding Gerardy, who smiled apologetically. "That's another thing I forgot to tell your partner," he said. "Don't talk to Pixie."

"Who was that!" Hutch whispered urgently. "I didn't read about her."

"Pixie," Gerardy explained. "She's Topher Martin's girl. Dumb as toast, but dangerous in her own way. Trust me, don't talk to her."

Topher Martin was the one 'platoon' member, who had not been in college and in no political party, either, but, like Starsky, in Vietnam and after that, unlike Starsky, in jail. Four years for serious bodily injury and robbery.

"Oh," Hutch muttered.

Patting his back, Gerardy led him further down the hill. "Don't worry; as long as you don't talk to her, you're safe. Ah, there're the others."

And indeed there were two other people, a woman, Zadie, and a man Hutch thought to be a man named Christian Gruder, approaching them.

"Hey, Ethan," Zadie greeted them and looked at Hutch. She was small, only reaching up to Hutch's shoulder, and rather fragile looking, but one look into her clear, green eyes told you that she was no girl and didn't like to be called one, either. A strong will marked her sharp features, giving her a hard appearance, almost cold, seemingly ever-defensive.

"Zadie," Gerardy smiled, "meet Hunter."

Zadie held out her small hand. "Hi there. I'm Zadie."

"Phil," Hutch smiled. She nodded as if he'd given a statement and turned to Christian Gruder, who had come to a halt behind her. "Christian, this is Hunter."

Hutch couldn't help casting Gerardy a helpless glance, but the undercover agent wasn't looking.

"Hi," Christian Gruder smiled, giving Hutch's hand a weak shake. "Good to have you here. Where're you from?"

"City," Hutch replied curtly and watched the shy smile fade into what looked like the beginnings of fear.

"Cool," Christian mumbled, his gaze dropping.

"Where're the others?" Gerardy asked Zadie, stretching to look over to the cabin, where Pixie had reclaimed a chair on the porch, where she'd sat down, leaning back as if dozing.

"Dobbs and McLean are sleeping," Zadie answered, annoyed. "Had another one of them 'men's nights'," she made quotation marks with her fingers for emphasis, "with the guys yesterday."

At that, Hutch's head snapped back to her from where he'd looked at the cabin and tent interestedly, but he kept himself from asking. Why would it surprise him, anyway, that in a group like this Starsky would belong to 'the guys'?

"Topher and Snoopy are down, trying to get the VW back on track," Zadie continued. Fortunately, she wasn't the attentive type, so that the small cough of amused surprise Hutch was unable to suppress passed her by unnoticed.

'Snoopy!'

"'Kay," Gerardy nodded, having also missed the twinkling in Hutch's eyes. "Thanks. Come on, Hunter, I'll introduce you to-"

"'The guys'?" Hutch asked sarcastically.

Gerardy grinned and turned to lead the way. Zadie and Christian left, walking up to the house.

It wasn't two minutes before Hutch could hear his partner's voice from somewhere behind the cabin, calling over the roar of a car's engine.

"No, stop! Topher! Stop it, man, this ain't gonna work!"

The girl, Pixie, only blinked one eye open lazily, when Gerardy and Hutch walked around the cabin. She was lying on a chair that stood on the porch with her long legs hanging casually over one armrest. Hutch avoided looking at her. At the back of the cabin, they saw Starsky bending over the inner organs of a bright yellow minibus, whose cracked, rusty hood was held in place with a wooden stick.

Taking the opportunity, Hutch allowed a quick grin travel over his face at the unfamiliar sight. His friend was clad in jeans and a white t-shirt so dirty and oil-streaked they could have stood on their own. His hair, sticking out wildly, was held back by a blue bandana - and in one corner of his mouth stuck a burning cigarette.

The sound of the driver's door being thrown shut tore Hutch's attention towards the second man, Topher Martin, who had jumped out of the bus at seeing Gerardy, and was now approaching them with slow strides. He was tall, muscular, with very short dark hair and a firm set of massive jaws that dominated his face. His hands finding his pockets, he produced a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He didn't make a face about that, even though a large bluish red bruise was visible around his mouth.

Somehow, Hutch couldn't help thinking he knew how that had ended up there.

"Hey 'Rardy," he muttered, nodding at Gerardy in a salute-like gesture, before focusing on the blond detective. "Welcome." He stretched out a large, dirty hand.

Spotting Starsky turning around at the voices behind him, Hutch looked down at the hand, but didn't take it. Instead, he adjusted the glasses on his nose, watching Topher Martin draw his hand back with an angry look.

"Hunter," Gerardy said, having understood the act, "these are Topher and-"

"Snoopy," Hutch finished with a smug expression he know only his partner would be able to read. Yet, it faded, when Starsky fully turned, wiping his hands off on an edge of his already soiled t-shirt. He, too, wore a colorful, large bruise around his left eye, and his left thumb was covered with a white, dirt-streaked bandage.

"Sam," he corrected and didn't even bother to offer Hutch his hand. "Hunter?" he instead asked in a tone that sounded like payback.

"Phil," Hutch answered, looking directly at his friend, but only received a 'Don't ask' look in return.

Starsky turned to Gerardy, taking the burned down cigarette out of his mouth and snapping it away. "Ethan, we need a new car."

Gerardy arched his brows, surprised. "I bring you a new member, and that is all the 'thank you' I get?"

Throwing Hutch a disparaging glance, Starsky shrugged. "What d'you expect?"

Playing along, Hutch rolled his eyes in obvious irritation, aware that Topher Martin was still glaring at him as well.

"Boys," Gerardy started, hands lifted defensively, "I told you there's nothing I can do. You have the jeep; take it or leave it. But don't get on my nerves, because this... flowermobile is giving you grief, okay? I have enough on my mind as it is." As if for emphasis, he checked his watch. "Actually I need to get going right now. I'll be back, tomorrow." He pointed a warning finger at the two men. "You behave, you hear?"

Now it was Starsky's turn to roll his eyes. "You don't have to tell us every time, man!" he exclaimed, hands starting to pat at his pockets, obviously looking for something that wasn't there. "What d'you take us for, kids?"

Topher grinned.

"You don't want an answer to that, do you?" Gerardy replied dryly and, having watched Starsky's searching movements for a second, produced a pack of cigarettes from his own jacket. Taking one himself, he flipped the bag at Starsky, who caught it in the air, and turned with a parting pat on Hutch's back. "Show Hunter the way back to his room for me, will ya, Sam?" he said, already leaving.

"Aye, aye, sir!" Starsky called after him. "And, hey, Ethan!"

Walking on, Gerardy glanced back questioningly.

"Nice suit!"

The undercover man flashed up his middle finger and continued on his way.

Topher snickered, accepting the bag of cigarettes Starsky held out for him, after having taken out one for himself. When he looked up at Hutch, who hadn't moved, his face darkened.

Watching, Starsky nudged his shoulder. "Hey, Pal, why don't you go get cleaned up before dinner? I think I can handle Smarty Smurf by myself."

When Topher only looked at him, he lifted his brows expectantly. "Hmm?"

Finally, the larger man nodded reluctantly and, bumping into Hutch's shoulder as he walked past him, left.

The moment Topher Martin was out of sight, Starsky practically let himself fall against Hutch, his bowed head connecting with the blond's shoulder. "I hate this crowd," he whined like a little kid, all tough guy attitude instantly forgotten.

Hutch couldn't help laughing at that, patting his friend's back. Starsky pushed away again. "I'm happy to see you too. Snoopy."

Starsky moaned, rubbing over his face, smearing dirt all over it. Hutch caught him wincing slightly when he touched the bruise.

"Does that name have something to do with Zadie's cookies?"

Blinking through his fingers, Starsky hesitated. "Ethan told you about that?"

Hutch nodded. "That... I made him promise not to!"

Taking his hands away, he noticed he still held the cigarette and absently stashed it into his pocket. Suddenly, he frowned, nodding at Hutch's hands. "What's that?"

Following his partner's glance, Hutch noticed the slightly-red rings the cuffs had left around his wrist and rubbed them lightly. "Nothing," he winked. "Just Perry's idea of payback. But," he added before Starsky had the chance for further inquiry, "I guess that's from something else." He pointed at Starsky's face. "What'd you do, Starsk? I can't even leave you alone for five days."

"Oh," Starsky said as if only now recalling. He brushed over the bruise lightly. "That. Yeah. Don't talk to the girl."

Understanding, Hutch nodded slowly. "Pixie."

Starsky lifted a warning index finger. "Don't call her by name. In fact, it might be better to simply ignore her altogether."

"You and Topher had a fight?" Hutch asked, somewhat amused.

Starsky thought about that. "I think of it more as a conversation."

"Mm-hmm. And that," Hutch said, pointing at Starsky's bandaged thumb, "is from talking to the girl too?"

"Ah, no," Starsky answered, lifting his thumb to look at it. "That's from trying to show Christian how to clean a machine gun. Word of advice," he added dryly, "don't trust Christian to understand what 'hold this up and don't let it snap back' means."

"Yeeouch," Hutch muttered with a slight frown, stepping closer to look at the dirty bandage. "Broken?"

"Nah," Starsky waved. "Just sprained, I think. None of the flakes took any medicine classes unfortunately, so I had to apply this on my own, but-"

"Now I'm here," Hutch finished and earned a grateful smile. Patting his friend's shoulder, he turned to head back for the house. "Come on, Snoop, let's take a look at this, and then you can tell me the other house rules."

"Okay," Starsky replied grumpily, following him. "Here is one: don't call me Snoop."

pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

"Wow," Hutch stated, when Starsky opened the door to "his" new room for him. They had entered the house through the backdoor, taking the - probably rare - opportunity to stay out of sight of the other group members for as long as possible to exchange information. "Now I really do feel like I'm back in college." Looking around the small room with its ceiling curved inward in one corner, he threw his bag onto the bed that - together with a chair and an old desk - was the only furniture. "Only I had a roomie," he added with a slightly nostalgic smile.

Starsky nodded. He'd closed the door behind them, careful to check the long floor for any unwanted listeners, and sat down on the wobbly chair. "I bet you didn't sit on General Macarthur's supply of dynamite back then, though," he stated dryly.

Hutch whistled quietly. "That's what they have?" he asked and waved Starsky's hand up. Leaning against the table, he undid the dirty bandage on the smaller man's thumb.

Watching suspiciously, Starsky answered, "Yep. Down in the cellar. Ow!" he exclaimed, when Hutch turned his thumb in his hands, examining the greenish-black bruise spreading from the knuckle on upward.

"Sorry," the blond muttered, flashing his friend an apologetic smile and walking over to his bag on the bed. "D'you have an idea what it is they might want to do with their little collection of explosives?" he asked, while digging through his bag, until he found what he had been looking for, and returned to his partner.

"Why am I not surprised you brought first aid stuff?" Starsky asked instead of an answer.

"'Cause you know I know you," Hutch grinned.

"Ah. Right," the brunet nodded, totally unimpressed, and held his thumb up for Hutch to bandage. "Well," he returned to their original topic, "we have our daily political discussion every night..."

Hutch couldn't hide a smirk at his friend's audibly unenthusiastic tone about that.

"And they have a lot of ideas, but nothing's been decided, yet. As far as I can tell, Dobbs and Zadie are calling the shots. I think they're..." He waggled his head slightly. "You know. Anyway, they're the ones, who really want to do something. Keep on saying how tired of waiting 'round for Nicolas they are, and so on. How they want to start making a difference, that sorta talk."

"What about the others?" Hutch asked. He had finished his bandaging job and leaned back against the table again, folding his arms in front of him.

"Christian's so glad to have found people who don't treat him like shit, he'd jump off a bridge if you'd tell him to," Starsky said, not without a hint of sympathy for the younger man, as Hutch noticed. "And McLean..." He shrugged. "The house is his."

"Yeah," Hutch nodded, understanding. "I met him."

"Yep."

"What about Topher Martin?" the blond asked and frowned, when he saw his friend growing quiet. "Starsk?"

The brunet looked up at him, a gravity in his eyes that Hutch had learned to recognize. "Topher's..." Starsky started, hushed himself and finally said, "I've seen guys like him before."

Hutch frowned questioningly.

"He was a POW, Hutch. With the Vietcong."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He wasn't sober," Starsky said, "but..." Once more he trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost strained. "He has flashbacks. Bad ones."

His partner's inner alarm instantly ticked off. "Starsk?" he asked, stretching the name, sounding like a teacher waiting to hear the confession of a prank.

Starsky sighed slightly. His gaze had dropped to study his thumb. "We'd been working on the car again the other day, after we had," he smirked, "settled things about Pixie."

Hutch grimaced, but kept his silence, listening.

"And all of a sudden, he went..." Starsky shook his head, looked up to meet his friend's eyes. "You know."

"Yeah," Hutch said quietly, "I know." They both knew he really did. "What happened?"

Starsky shrugged. "The classic thing. He flipped out."

"Did he attack you?"

"No," Starsky answered sincerely. "He just got really scared. Badly scared. I could calm him down, but..."

"Time bomb?" Hutch asked, when his friend trailed off.

"Oh, yeah," Starsky nodded meaningfully.

"Do the others know about this? Topher hasn't been here that long, either."

"I don't know if they know," Starsky said, "but they kinda keep their distance."

"He doesn't really fit in," Hutch said. The files had said that Ethan had chosen Topher Martin for the group due to Darren Nicolas thinking an ex-trooper would change the groups overall annoyingly academic appearance. He wondered if the undercover agent knew about Topher's past, or his condition.

"If you want my opinion, he doesn't fit in the world," Starsky said sadly. He shook his head. "He should've never been put in jail in the first place, but straight to..." He made an unmistakable gesture.

Hutch sighed, lifting his glasses a bit, as he rubbed his eyes. "Okay, while we're here, think you can keep an eye on him?"

"What d'you think I've been doing all week long?" Starsky retorted.

"Getting your butt kicked and smoking pot," Hutch answered. A wicked grin snaked over his features at his friend's grumbled reaction. "Wanna tell me now what this name's all about?" Of course, such a lame attempt wasn't going to be graced with success.

Casting him a dark glare, Starsky stood, looking down on himself, then at his watch. "I'm gonna go get a shower. Anything else?"

The amusement on Hutch's face faded. "Shower?" he repeated accusingly. "I just bandaged you up."

"Oh," Starsky looked at his thumb and back at Hutch. He shrugged. "Didja think I'd walk around like this all day?"

Resigning, Hutch waved and watched his partner approach the door, when he thought of something else. "By the way, where's your room?" To his initial surprise, Starsky's shoulders slumped, and when he turned again, it was with the most heartbreakingly suffering expression.

Hutch grinned, and a chuckle (that his partner would have described us 'utterly cruel') made his voice quiver when he asked, "You have the tent?" It had come out as more of a statement than a question.

It looked as if Starsky wanted to shoot back a reply to that, but thought differently - knowing he couldn't win - and instead turned for the door again. Before he opened it, though, he shot his gloating partner a grim look. "A real friend would've offered to switch places, y'know?"

"Oh, hey," Hutch said with a wide, innocent gesture, "I´d do it any time, partner, but," he grimaced mockingly, "I don't think Phil Hunter would, so..." He shrugged apologetically. "Sorry."

The slightly-pissed glance changed into a full death-glare. "Yeah. Sure. See ya later then."

"Yeah," Hutch smiled. "And I'll look at that," he pointed at Starsky's hand, "again later too."

"Thanks, but d'you really think Phil Hunter would do that?" Starsky grumbled and, ignoring the chuckling that followed him, left the room.

The door hadn't even fallen closed, when Hutch heard his friend loudly exclaim, "Mornin', Brighton!"

Pushing himself away from the desk, Hutch grabbed the door to open it again and looked down the hallway just in time to catch the sight of Starsky patting a decidedly startled looking Brighton Dobbs on his back with enough force to "help" the taller man take a stumbling step forward.

"Head feelin' alright?" Starsky asked teasingly and didn't wait for an answer, but headed for the bathroom on the right side - which had obviously been Dobbs' destination. "Oh," the detective quickly announced, before drawing the door shut behind himself, "the newbie's here." And with a last pointing down the hall at Hutch, he vanished inside the room.

Knowing his partner like he did, Hutch assumed that bullying Brighton Dobbs wasn't all just undercover show on Starsky's part. And judging from the expression he saw on Dobbs' face when the man turned to look at him, this hadn't been the first time it had happened, either. It didn't surprise Hutch - he'd found Brighton Dobbs to even sound like quite an unpleasant fellow when studying his file - yet he couldn't help feeling the faintest twinge of sympathy for the poor guy. He whom Dave Starsky disliked did not have an easy life...

Dobbs visibly tried his best to force a greeting smile upon his face, when he approached Hutch, stretching out his hand for the detective to shake. Hutch did so. "I see," Dobbs grumbled, "you met the LITTLE RAT!" The last part was practically yelled back at the bathroom.

The sound of the shower starting answered him.

Dobbs sighed angrily and turned to Hutch again. "I hate this guy," he stated with so much honest loathing that Hutch just had to laugh.

"I wouldn't've noticed," Hutch quipped and finally introduced himself. "Phil Hunter."

"Sorry," Dobbs apologized ruefully and, once more, shook Hutch's hand. "Brighton Dobbs." Suddenly realizing he'd just crawled out of bed and was still wearing the boxers and t-shirt he'd slept in, Dobbs blushed. "Usually I'm up and about a little more early, but..." Casting the newcomer a 'you know what it's like' look, he trailed off and instead started with a new topic, while he headed for his own room again, making it clear he wanted Hutch to follow him. "Ethan still here?"

"No," Hutch answered, politely stopping in the door to Dobbs' room, leaning against its frame. "He had another meeting this afternoon. Went right after he dropped me off."

Dobbs nodded to indicate he was listening. He had grabbed a neatly-folded pair of jeans from a pile of equally-folded ones and put it on. Taking a quick glance around the strikingly-tidy room, Hutch couldn't help but feel reminded of Starsky's side of their room back at the academy. He suppressed an amused grin.

"He told me he'd bring you," Dobbs said, stepping outside again. For the briefest moment, he waited, listening for the water which was still running in the shower, then rolled his eyes and gestured for them to go downstairs. Hutch nodded and followed him.

"Said they brought you in for organizing a demonstration in front of City Hall?"

"Y-yeah," Hutch answered hastily, startled, since he'd had no idea 'they' had arrested him for doing that. 'Thanks for keeping a fellow updated, Gerardy,' he thought irritatedly. "Ethan got me out just today," he added quickly, wanting to change the topic. Walking on eggshells made him nervous, he figured sarcastically. "He thinks I could be of use here."

"No doubt about that," Dobbs said enthusiastically. They had reached the kitchen, and he was pouring himself a cup of coffee, waving the pot at Hutch questioningly. The detective nodded and, with a thankful smile, accepted a steaming mug. They sat down at the table. In the 'lobby', Hutch could see Zadie and Christian lying down on one of the many mattresses, playing some sort of card game.

"At first, when Ethan said he'd found someone else who would 'be good for the group', I did have doubts, I admit that," Dobbs said. He lifted his cup with a frustrated little noise. "Especially after his last choices."

Hutch nodded understandingly: Topher and Starsky.

"But I heard a lot about you," Dobbs continued with a somewhat expectant smile, which Hutch returned carefully. It did sound like that was a good thing, but the other man's odd way of behaving like they were actually pals, alone on a mission only they knew about, had caught him off guard. From what he'd learned about Brighton Dobbs from the files, he had thought him to be cold, unreachable. The embodiment of the arrogantly self-assured, righteous, upper-class marxist.

"Same here," Hutch said.

Dobbs grinned contentedly - as if it was understood that that had been a compliment - and lifted his coffee as if for a toast. "Welcome to Camp California," he said, emptied his cup, and stood. "I'm gonna," he said, pointing upwards, "kick his skinny butt outta there now."

'Meaning you think he's done by now,' Hutch thought with an inner smirk, but nodded affirmatively. After Dobbs had left, he remained sitting at the table, drinking his coffee, and took the opportunity to sort out what he had learned so far. Which wasn't much, apart from his partner's ability to spread joy and harmony wherever he went (and that wasn't a fact exactly new to Hutch) and the discovery that he had obviously been chosen to become Brighton Dobbs' best friend before he had ever met the guy.

Oh, and that there was dynamite in the cellar, he added with dry humor.

He could hear voices upstairs and the bathroom door being opened, when Norton McLean suddenly emerged from his hidden downstairs room again - still in the same outfit Hutch had seen him in before - and shuffled into the kitchen. Upon seeing Hutch sitting there, he waved tiredly. "Hey."

"Hey," Hutch replied.

McLean headed for the coffee pot, poured himself a cup and turned to Hutch. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Ah, no, thanks," Hutch smiled, gesturing at his mug.

McLean nodded and put the pot down on the breakfast bar, where he noticed an unwatched pack of cigarettes. Without hesitating, he grabbed it, shook one out to clamp it between his lips, and held out the pack for Hutch. "Ciggie?" It was all said in the same tone of voice; Hutch was beginning to wonder if the younger man could talk in whole sentences.

He was just about to accept the offer with a thankful 'sure', when he felt a glance on him, and, looking up, he found Starsky practically glaring at him from the bottom step of the stairs.

Instantly understanding, Hutch cast McLean a nervous smile and, once again, shook his head politely. "Thanks, but no thanks," he muttered.

With a shrug, McLean picked up his coffee and turned to leave. "Mornin', Dude," he greeted Starsky, when he passed him. "Last night? Neat party."

Starsky nodded in feigned coolness. "Yep. Today - mean hangover."

"You got it," McLean replied, his voice still not changing one bit, and vanished behind his corner. His door fell shut.

Hutch glanced up at his partner, who grimaced just for him, and smiled sympathetically. He had no doubt that the very last thing Starsky had needed after four days at Camp California had been a 'neat party' with Topher Martin, Norton McLean and Brighton Dobbs.

"Have you met Brighton, yet, Hunter?" Zadie Morgan's voice drew Hutch's attention away from watching Starsky very plainly pick up the pack of cigarettes and put it out of reach.

He looked up to see her come to a halt in front of the table, Christian Gruder - as always - one step behind her. "Yeah," he nodded, "just now."

"He's really been waiting for you to get here, after all Ethan has told him about you," she said.

"Tell me about it," Starsky cut in, annoyed. He was leaning against the breakfast bar, arms folded in front of his bare chest, since he now only wore the dirty jeans he'd hurried into the bathroom with. His hair was still dripping wet, and only now did Hutch see he had no shoes on, either. Maybe Dobbs' mission of conquering the bathroom hadn't been a complete failure after all. "He thinks last night was a party, but the truth is we couldn't endure listening to him rambling any longer."

To Hutch's discreet surprise, he caught Zadie stifle a grin at that.

"You're his Dulcina," Starsky added, casting Hutch a mockingly 'you lucky pup, you'-glance.

"Dulcinea," his friend and Zadie Morgan corrected in unison.

"Whatever," Starsky grumbled and, as if out of a sudden inspiration, opened the fridge to peek inside, then let it fall closed again, unsatisfied. "Hey, woman - food?" he asked Zadie, who had been about to talk to Hutch again.

Her irritated expression was ruined by an affectionate laugh that broke free, as she stepped up to him. "Hey, Snoop - manners?"

"No, thanks," he grinned and earned a playful punch to his upper arm.

"You're awful," Zadie informed him, quite happily, Hutch thought.

"Well, with you being beautiful, that makes the world okay between us," Starsky quipped charmingly and placed a feather-light kiss on her cheek, before turning for the door. "Be right back, just gonna grab a shirt."

"Don't bother!" Zadie called after him.

Instead, he didn't bother to look back. "Ah, ah, Zade, your cooking's not that good."

Giving a small snort, Zadie looked down at Hutch - who did his very best to stay in his indignant undercover alias and look utterly disapproving of the flirting he'd just witnessed - and Christian, who'd sat down next to him. "You hungry, too?" she asked.

"Yeah, thanks," Hutch answered. Christian didn't react. It seemed understood that the question hadn't included him.

Catching the cool tone, Zadie waved slightly, while she produced a pan from one of the cupboards. "Never mind Snoopy, that's just his way. He's..." She hesitated, then shrugged. " ... a big kid."

"Mm-hmm," Hutch muttered. "Does he need spoon-feeding too, or can he at least do that by himself?" If it was Ethan Gerardy's plan to have him be on Brighton Dobbs' side, he'd be on Brighton Dobbs' side.

Zadie cast him an almost pitying smile. "Want some advice? If you don't like him, keep your distance."

Hutch frowned at that and caught Christian nodding in agreement. Lifting his brows, he picked up his coffee mug. "Didn't say a thing."

"Better not," Zadie said and turned to where she was busy cracking eggs into the pan.

A few minutes later, Brighton Dobbs climbed down the stairs, this time dressed in a corduroy pants and jacket. He didn't look particularly happy, and the sight of the empty coffee pot didn't seem to help his mood. Grumbling, he let himself sink down on the last kitchen chair. Nevertheless, when he looked at Hutch, he smiled. "Wanna join me doing the shopping today? See the town and all that?"

'The town' was Monterey, Hutch assumed. "Sure," he said.

"Good," Dobbs' smile widened, but only until the door opened again to reveal a freshly dressed Starsky, followed by Pixie, Topher Martin's girl. To Hutch's amusement, he was walking decidedly ahead, never once turning to even acknowledge her presence.

"Someone," Dobbs said sternly, glaring at Starsky, "used up all the hot water again."

"Really?" Starsky asked, unimpressed, and shook his head sadly. "What is this world coming to?" Discussion being over, he settled for standing next to Zadie, hovering above her cooking.

Pixie had walked straight over to the table, leaning against it where Hutch sat, blocking his view, as she looked directly at him. "Hiya," she smiled.

"Um..."

"I kept wondering... is Hunter your first or last name?"

Before Hutch had even had time to remember the correct answer, a trio of male voices, chorusing a half-sigh-half-moan of "Zadie!" echoed through the room. Without looking up from preparing her scrambled eggs, Zadie asked, "Pix, could you go ask Topher if he wants to eat too?"

"He's sleepin'," Pixie answered, never taking her eyes off Hutch.

At that, Zadie turned around, casting the younger girl a strict look. "Then wake him."

Pixie rolled her large blue eyes dramatically, but pushed herself away from the table unwillingly. "At your command, Witch," she muttered quietly and left the house, not without winking her slender fingers goodbye at Hutch.

He couldn't help staring after her.

"Didn't I tell you to not talk to Pixie?" Starsky asked accusingly.

"Yeah, Hunter," Dobbs nodded, a smug grin crossing his features. "Listen to him, he knows what he's talking about."

"Well, we can't all be on the safe side, when it comes to the girls, professor," Starsky countered.

The quarrel would have grown much longer - and probably louder - if it hadn't been for Zadie. "Guys. C'mon." She cast Starsky a chiding glance.

Lifting his hands in an 'I didn't start it'-gesture, he obediently fell silent.

Neither of them noticed Dobbs' secret glare. To the contrary, however, Hutch made a mental note of it.

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Hutch had to agree with Starsky on the quality of Zadie's cooking. Yet, it didn't keep his friend from showing his usual enthusiasm about food, which resulted in an explanation meant for the newbie - Hutch - from Zadie: "Just don't try to comprehend it. Snoop could eat for California."

"Any day," Starsky had happily agreed.

Afterwards, Dobbs and Hutch prepared for driving into town, getting a list of what everyone needed - mostly beer and cigarettes. To the blond detective's increasing discomfort, it seemed that Camp California was inhabited by chain smokers only. Once more he was offered a cig, by Dobbs this time, when they were already in the jeep, and he accepted it (gratefully). Unfortunately, Brighton had forgotten something inside the house, and the second he was out of sight, Starsky appeared next to the rolled--down passenger's window, keeping Hutch from lighting up his cigarette with a stern look.

"You're doin' it," Hutch complained with a whine, but placed the cig on Starsky's outstretched palm.

"Yeah, but we both know I can stop again afterwards," Starsky replied. "When you smoke, you smoke. Besides," he added in a hurried, smug whisper, watching Dobbs leaving the house again, "I don't think it'd fit Phil Hunter."

And off he went, missing his partner's hissed "I hate you!"

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All the way into the city, Brighton Dobbs kept on rambling about how the BM Platoon needed to become widely known, how changes couldn't spring from secrets, and that they, he and Phil Hunter - and, with some qualifications, Zadie Morgan - should be the ones calling the shots instead of this Gerardy guy Darren Nicolas had left them alone with.

Hutch decided to play his role rather cool, listening and agreeing, but not too openly. He'd nod a lot, but never uttered a suggestion of his own. And the longer this one-sided conversation went on, the more convinced he grew that his tactics were appropriate. Even though Brighton Dobbs had been arrested way back when, right after college, for founding an illegal party, he hadn't been in jail, but had bought his way out of it with his parents' money. He had no clue about anything, and to Hutch he seemed more like a bored teenager planning his big summer adventure than the head of a radical group. His attitude, though, couldn't have been more dangerous.

"I'm the last one who'd want to kill innocent people, but then - who is innocent, if they're not fighting this system, know what I mean?"

Hutch nodded mutely. 'Oh yeah.'

"And I'm not saying actually killing someone is necessary, but... Let's face it, demonstrations and labs going up don't make it onto the front pages anymore, now do they?"

Hutch shook his head.

"No offense, man," Dobbs quickly added, remembering Phil Hunter's verdict.

"None taken," Hutch said. "If I didn't think that too, I wouldn't be here, would I?"

On Dobbs' face appeared the biggest smile Hutch had seen there, yet. "Right."

It had dawned on Hutch some time ago, that the reason for Brighton Dobbs' instant trust in him wasn't just the result of Ethan Gerardy's story, but also had something to do with the man's highly superficial makeup. Philip Hunter looked like him, acted like him, appeared like him - and therefore he trusted him. Hutch found it hard to believe he had actually been that right about Dobbs' character, when he'd judged him just from reading his file - but it seemed to be the case. Brighton Dobbs had waited for months for someone like Philip Hunter to enter the scene.

"Can I ask you a question?"" Hutch asked after a moment of silence.

"Sure. What?"

"Have you spoken to Nicolas about any of this?"

The briefest flicker of nervousness rushed through Dobbs' eyes at the mention of THE BOSS' name, but at seeing the lack of accusation in Hutch's gaze, he found his self-confidence again. "Yeah. Not just once, either."

Hutch watched him closely, carefully planning his next few moves. "He wants your camp to remain what it is: a place for his stocks. Doesn't he?"

"Pretty much, yep," Brighton answered grimly.

Hutch nodded slowly. "Thought so." He paused for emphasis, then placed the first of his little verbal landmines. "When was the last time he was been out here, anyway?"

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It was long past midnight that day, when Hutch stood in his small room, looking out at the huge, thick-branched tree that stood right next to the edge of the roof underneath his open window.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered to himself, while he swung first his right and then his left leg over his windowsill and onto the roof. Years of experience, though, enabled him to carefully half-step/half-crawl his way down and towards the tree, where he grabbed the first branch he could reach to climb down and to the ground.

In the near distance, the dim circle of a flashlight lay still behind the greenish material of the tent next to the cabin.

Silently sprinting over damp grass, Hutch made his way over to the tent's entry, where he crouched down, finding the canvas unzipped. "Starsk?" he whispered, and, peeking inside, found his partner sound asleep, curled up on a blanket and half-wrapped in a second one. The flashlight still lay next to the limp fingers they had obviously fallen out of.

Rolling his eyes, Hutch crawled inside. Out of fear of the zipper making too much noise, he left the entry open, but at least rolled the canvas back down. "Starsky?" he whispered once more and gave the sleeping man's shoulder a gentle shake. "Starsk, wake up."

Starsky muttered something unintelligible and dragged his head down to bury his face inside the blanket.

Hutch sighed quietly. "Starsky, man, c'mon. I'm tired too. Staaarsky."

"Hmm?" an annoyed mumble finally reached his ears, and he sat back, leaving the other one room enough to wake up fully. "Hmwhat?" Starsky asked drowsily, blinking his eyes against the slumber trying to push them closed. "Hutch?"

"Sure, me. Who'd you expect, the sandman?"

Starsky just blinked some more, still extremely sleepy. "Did I fall asleep?" he asked, puzzled, and tried to push himself up on his elbow, only to find he'd used his damaged thumb in the process. With a stifled gasp, he fell back down.

"Don't put pressure on it," Hutch advised smartly.

"Don't get on my nerves," Starsky replied, now fully alert. He settled for rolling onto his stomach, and looking up at Hutch, who was scanning the tent's modest interior.

"Cozy little place you have here."

"You have to rub my nose in it, don't ya?"

Hutch slightly raised his hands in a feigned apologetic defense. "Sorry."

Starsky growled quietly and shifted, wincing, when his thumb once more protested against any unwise moves.

Honestly sympathetic now, Hutch nodded at it. "Hurt badly?"

"Nah, 'sokay," Starsky winked. "As long as I don't put pressure on it." The wry smile he cast his friend softened the retort. "How was your day then?" Though they had seen each other on and off over the day, there had been no opportunities to exchange information or talk in private. "Have a nice time getting to know Brightass?"

Hutch's attempt at a chiding look was ruined by a wicked grin pressing through. "Boy, am I glad I was never on your list, Pal. D'you even know how mean you can be to people?"

Unimpressed, Starsky shrugged curtly. "Tell me you don't hate his guts, and I'll be nice."

Hutch contemplated. "Well," he finally said in feigned hurt, "you could stop calling me Smarty Smurf."

"Sure I could."

"Okay."

"But I don't think I want to." Starsky grinned.

"Oh. Right. Well, go ahead. What do I care?" Hutch waved and after a pause added, "Snoopy." At the sharp glare he received for that, he only smiled innocently.

Starsky sighed, but it seemed the desire for sleep kept him from entering the openly-offered battle. "Okay, serious now. D'you have anything to tell? For, on my part it's nothing more than that the Flowermobile is still out of order."

"And Topher?" Hutch asked, all business-talk now, as well.

Starsky shrugged. "Holding his own. Far as I can tell."

Hutch nodded. "'Kay. Well, Dobbs and I had a little chat. Or, rather, I listened to his monologue."

"I was just about to ask," Starsky quipped.

His partner smiled knowingly. "Anyway - you were right, he is calling the shots, or at least he believes he is. And he sorta counts Zadie on his side, though..." He trailed off, searching his friend's face. "Have you noticed Dobbs expressing a certain... disapproval concerning your behavior towards Zadie?"

"Disapproving?" Starsky asked, the smug grin in his eyes betraying the shock his voice carried. "Brighton? Is he really?"

Hutch chuckled. "You're cold, d'you know that?"

The smaller man shrugged. "Hey, they're the ones, who think conventional relationships are all based on a fascistic view of the world. I'm just charming a girl."

"The way I see it, you're charming her man right into my part of the story," Hutch observed.

"And it's working, isn't it?"

Hutch cast him a helpless glance. Sure, it had worked. And it was a brilliant, too. Just the way you wanted your partner to prepare the undercover area for your arrival, and even better. Hutch had no doubts about the situation Starsky had found, when he'd arrived in 'Camp California': a duo of lovers, passionately united in their fight for what they believed to be right, believing that they were leading a bunch of unorganized, wanna-be grown-ups. Now, the duo of that picture was history, and that had left Brighton Dobbs eagerly awaiting for someone new to discuss his plans with, at the same time leaving Zadie Morgan to trust Starsky more than her ex.

Separate the people on top. Yes, it was a brilliant plan, Hutch admitted. If only it didn't leave him having the most irritating person thinkable as his shadow.

"Mm-hmm," he muttered his grumbled response.

Starsky grinned knowingly.

About to shoot back a fitting reply, Hutch had to stifle a yawn and wisely decided to drop the topic. "Okay, like I said, you were right about Dobbs' enthusiasm concer-"

"Nice way of putting it."

"Concerning their... mission," Hutch finished, ignoring his friend's interruption. "But the way I see it, I think their problem is they're-"

"Lacking a mission?" Starsky cut in again.

Hutch nodded. "Yep."

"Yeah, I noticed," the curly-haired detective agreed. "'Sno reason for them to do anything. No point in planning something."

"Nothing they could want," Hutch added. "Has Zadie spoken to you about that?"

"Well," Starsky replied, grimacing slightly, "sort of. I can't shake the feeling she doesn't think I'm-"

"Smart enough?"

"Intellectually equal," Starsky corrected with a scowl.

Hutch smiled amusedly. "They are a bunch of real snobs, huh? 'Cept for you guys."

"'You guys'? That'd be us tent-and-cabin inhabitants?"

"Who do the car jobs," Hutch said in feigned defense. "Don't underestimate the importance of the working class for the revo-"

"Isn't it time for you to climb up into your room again? Last I heard, you nerds all get up at sunrise."

Hutch grinned, but nodded. "Yeah, I guess I should get going." Trailing off, he scanned their surroundings again, an almost regretful expression rushing over his features. "Know something, Starsk? This is really nice."

His partner rolled his eyes. "Too late, rich boy. Go back into your real room with a real bed and real lights and a real bathroom next door and leave me my..." He waved a hand over his sleeping bag and pillow. "... dirt."

Chuckling at his friend's heart-breakingly suffering sigh and fallen face, Hutch patted his shoulder on the short crawl over to the exit. "Don't take it so hard, Buddy."

Starsky glared after him. "You're enjoying this, aren't ya?"

"Actually," Hutch admitted, a faked nostalgic look settling in his eyes, "it does remind me of some summer camps I've been to, y'know? Climbing out of windows in the middle of the night, meeting in other people's ten-"

"And out you go," Starsky cut him off, holding the exit canvas up for him with a determined gesture. "Don't slip on the grass."

Hutch crawled out, still grinning, and waved goodbye. "Don't forget to check your sleeping bag for snakes, Partner."

"Good night," Starsky hissed and let the exit fall shut.

Snickering to himself, Hutch rushed back to the house.

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As much as the importance of the 'working class' shouldn't be underestimated, it turned out that the same went for the advantages of belonging to it. Meaning: while Starsky spent the next two days rummaging through the Flowermobile's interior together with Topher, when he wasn't observing Zadie's and Christian's daily shooting training, Hutch was more or less doomed to Brighton Dobbs' presence. He had shown Hutch the quite impressive arsenal of weapons safely hidden in the cellar, and if they weren't discussing ideological matters as well as practical ideas ('discussing' being a highly one-sided term here...) they would sit in the kitchen for hours, playing chess.

At first, Hutch had been relieved to at least be able to pass some time like that, but his delight over having found a supposedly-equal chess partner had quickly subsided, when it had become clear that for all his smarts, Brighton Dobbs was as easy to beat at chess as Rosie Dobey. So after merely 48 hours, Hutch started to decidedly identify with the subjects of their undercover mission: he was itching for something - anything - to happen.

"Did too."

"Did not!"

Feeling reminded of long-faded times, when his head would snap up at every noise and voice entering the kitchen he'd been confined to to get his homework done, Hutch felt his head come up from his latest chess game with Dobbs, greedy eyes searching for some distraction. The distraction entered the room in form of his partner and Zadie, as usual followed by her Christian Gruder-shaped shadow. It was early evening; the first golden rays of dying sunlight had begun to cover the garden with their sparkling blanket. Somewhere in the lobby, Pixie had curled up on a mattress, reading a comic book. Norton McLean had yet to emerge from his room. A certain odor of house-weed established the belief that he wouldn't appear too soon, either.

It was Dobbs' turn (to Hutch it seemed as if it always was) and Hutch could see him steal a grim glance from his examination of the board up to Starsky, who was jumping up on the breakfast bar, while Zadie headed straight for the fridge, still laughing at some crack he'd just made. Hutch hadn't failed to notice how the woman's laughter, her whole, usually so very serious, attitude changed when she willingly entered a flirting match with 'Snoopy'.

"Sure, you did!" Starsky exclaimed, accepting the beer can Zadie handed him only to wave it at her for emphasis. "Go on denying, veggie girl, but I saw that bird drop dead to the ground, and so did Christian. Didn't ya, Chris?" He lifted his brows at Christian, who had secretly sat down on the table, taking in the situation on the chess board and was now looking up, startled, visibly uncomfortable at being dragged into the quarrel going on.

"Pardon?" he asked shyly.

Starsky flashed him the briefest of smiles, only for him to catch, and turned to Zadie again, who was holding out beer cans for Hutch and Dobbs, raising her brows questioningly. Hutch accepted with a grateful nod. "See? He saw it too."

Zadie was not impressed, but happily playing along, Hutch thought. Lighting up a cigarette, she sat down too, much to Brighton Dobbs' barely hidden annoyance. "I did not shoot a bird, and that's that."

"Right," Starsky nodded. "You didn't. And the Pope's a Jew."

"I did not!" Zadie exclaimed through a laughter. "I startled it, okay, but I saw it fly away, unscathed, uninjured, un-dead."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time you should ask Smarty Smurf to let you have his glasses then," Starsky quipped, ignoring the discreet scowl he received from his partner. "For there's no doubt about it. You're officially a danger to birds." He raised his beer as if for a toast. "Cheers."

"Not true," Zadie replied and caught Hutch's gaze resting upon her. "Not true," she repeated to him. He smiled, waving slightly with both hands as if to say 'don't drag me into this'.

"But," Starsky continued, tone dropping to a more serious level, "gotta tell you, Zade, you're good. Getting better every day. Maybe tomorrow, we could try moving targets for a change."

It took all Hutch had to not let on that he just knew what was about to follow. He focused on the board to keep from rolling his eyes.

And Starsky didn't disappoint him. "Got some time then, Brighton?"

"Snoop," Zadie chided, but only half-heartedly, and she was ignored by her ex-lover, anyway, whose head snapped up fully now, a meant-to-kill glare meeting Starsky's falsely innocent expression.

Hutch didn't move; somehow, Phil Hunter hadn't turned out to be talkative or very interested in the members' ongoing quarrels and fights. In fact, people seemed to constantly talk to-- not with--him.

"You think that's funny?" Dobbs replied through gritted teeth.

Starsky shrugged. "I admit I can do better, but..."

Dobbs looked like he was about to say some more, but Zadie's hand lightly pressing his forearm kept him from it. "Dobbs, c'mon. You know he's just teasing. Don't be so cramped about it."

"Cramped?" Dobbs repeated angrily, shooting her a glare. "This is no fucking summer camp! In case you haven't noticed, we're waiting for the word to really use the stuff! And not for birds! It's not supposed to be fun time, when you're out there practicing!"

At that increasingly loud outburst, even Hutch allowed himself to lift his head, trying to lock eyes with Dobbs.

"What with you in here, 'out there' is the only place to have fun," Starsky mumbled into his beer.

"What was that!" Dobbs exploded and stood up to approach the curly-haired man on the breakfast bar. He came to a halt inches before him.

Starsky didn't move - there was no point, he was smaller than Dobbs, anyway - but met the other man's eyes unimpressed. "We others are all ready, Brighton, but I haven't seen you pick up a gun once, since I've been here, know what I'm saying?"

Dobbs did, very well too, and he was about to express it, but was interrupted by Starsky's adding, "And besides - yes, we have noticed we're waiting for something to give. And that's all we've done so far, isn't it? Waiting and waiting and waiting." His voice dropping a degree, he bent forward. "Accept it, Little General, you're not calling the shots, not here, not anywhere. You're sitting on a powder keg you're supposed to watch and that's all. So if you could just get off my back and take a chill pill, that'd be real nice."

Unnoticed in the split-second silence that followed, Hutch closed his eyes, unnerved. 'Smart move, Gordo.' He could hear Dobbs draw in a shaky breath, audibly trying to control himself - and then fail at that.

"Why, you..." Dobbs hissed and with full force brought his clenched fist down on Starsky's left hand that rested on the breakfast bar, since he couldn't hold a bottle with his hurt thumb.

The detective flinched violently, but swallowed a yelp, though he had to clench his jaws. Eyes never leaving Dobbs' face, he slowly put the bottle down next to him, slid off the bar, tilted his head to one side slightly, mockingly - and landed a solid, well-placed punch right on the other man's nose. Brighton did not swallow his scream, when he crashed backwards, missing the table by an inch, and landed hard on the ground. Kicking his legs furiously as if he was running away, he cradled his bleeding nose.

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Sam!" Zadie yelled angrily, jumping to kneel down next to the fallen Dobbs. "God damn it!" She shot Starsky a furious glare, then turned to Brighton again, trying to pry his hands away from his nose. But he kept drawing away from her, still swearing colorfully under his breath.

Hutch stayed where he'd sat, throwing his friend an annoyed scowl. 'Was that really necessary!'

Unaware of the silent communication taking place above her head, Zadie reached out to grab one of Brighton's arms, ignoring his protests. Seemingly out of nowhere, a very quiet, very frightened looking Christian Gruder suddenly appeared next to her to assist her in helping Dobbs up and back onto a chair.

Starsky stood, leaning against the breakfast bar, absently rubbing his thumb.

"Here, let me see," Zadie muttered to Dobbs and finally succeeded in getting a glimpse of his bloody nose. "Aw, man," she sighed and turned to Starsky angrily. "Satisfied!"

Before his partner even had time to come up with some smart-ass answer that would only result in ticking everyone off even more, Hutch stood, announcing, "I'll go get a towel."

"Don't bother," Christian quickly cut in, jumping to his feet. "I'll go." And off he went, visibly grateful to be able to flee the scenery.

It wasn't the first time Hutch wondered what motives could have possibly driven this shy, intimidated, quiet young man to join such a group. Where had Nicolas found him, and, more importantly, why had he wanted Gruder in his 'Platoon'!

His attention drawn back to the loud half-whimpers/half-curses emanating from Brighton, Hutch made a quick note to remember to ask Starsky for his opinion on Christian Gruder later.

"Stop fussing, Zadie, okay! God!"

"Okay!" Zadie snapped angrily, lifting her hands sharply and stepping back until she stood next to Starsky, scowling once more at him. "You're the worst macho ever, Snoop, d'you know that! For Christ's sake!"

The fact that he had been promoted from 'Sam' to 'Snoop' again wasn't lost on either him or Hutch. Or Brighton for that matter, who looked up sharply, the anger in his narrowed eyes boiling. When he felt Hutch's inspecting gaze upon him, he turned to cast him a brief look. Hutch smiled encouragingly and even reached out to pat his forearm.

"Am I the only one who saw that he started it!" Starsky asked irritated.

"Yes," Zadie and Hutch muttered in response.

"Where do you come into this, anyway!" Starsky snapped at his partner, taking the opportunity to make eye contact at last.

Annoyingly innocently, Hutch lifted his hands in mock defense. "Didn't say a thing. Don't come punch me."

"Can't say I-"

"Okay, okay," Zadie quickly cut in, her worried reaction proving the detectives' acting talents to be as convincing as ever. "You," she turned to Starsky, "cool off. Now."

"I wasn't going to-"

"Just," Zadie interrupted him sharply, "shut up, Snoopy, okay? Shut up and stay out of..."

She trailed off, when she saw Christian return with a handful of towels and pushed herself off the bar to grab one. "Now take your hands away, Dobbs," she ordered and sat down next to her ex, the perfect image of a caring, motherly-concerned girlfriend. It wasn't one that suited her very well, Hutch thought.

Looking up at his partner again, he saw that something had caught Starsky's attention, all smug post-punch attitude having completely faded from his face, as he frowned at something in the lobby.

Discreetly, Hutch turned in his seat, catching a glimpse of Topher Martin pacing in a far corner of the other room. Pixie blocked his view, though. She was obviously agitated and kept on glancing urgently in their direction - at Starsky, as Hutch suddenly realized. He turned back at his partner just in time to see him hurry into the lobby, throwing him the briefest of glances.

Whatever it was that was going on with Topher, his side wasn't the right place for Phil Hunter to be, and so Hutch forced himself to remain where he was, trying to look casually unimpressed at the scenery in front of him. Zadie had managed to wipe away most of the blood on Dobbs' face and was now busy with the unnecessary touching and prodding that were normal from someone who had no clue as to how a damaged nose felt. Humiliated to the point of grumbling loudly under his breath, Dobbs let her have her way, though. Hutch couldn't help thinking he even looked sort of... contented with the sudden amount of attention he was getting from his former girlfriend.

Christian had returned to his seat and withdrawn again, as if he'd just popped into existence for his latest quest and then had disappeared again. Hutch smiled at him, but didn't get a reaction. What was it with this kid, anyway!

The noise of the front door falling shut made Hutch and Christian jump, and again, the detective cast the quiet man a slight, reassuring smile. The ghost of a responding one rushed over Christian's features, but that was it.

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"Hey, Snoop." Smiling apologetically at the violent flinch his greeting had just caused, Hutch stepped closer to his friend, careful to ensure that his appearance not reveal his true concern.

Darkness had set by now, the house lights casting the garden into a dim, softly foggy, deep black shadow. Starsky was sitting on the porch alone, smoking. There was no light inside the cabin. All was quiet.

"Don't sneak up on a guy like that," Starsky muttered in a worn-down version of his Snoopy-tone and snapped his cigarette away, as he stood up. "And don't call me Snoop."

"Sorry," Hutch replied, lifting his brows questioningly at the cabin.

His partner nodded and stepped away, over to his tent. Hutch followed, glancing over his shoulder to see if they were alone. "What happened?" he asked in an urgent whisper, once they had stopped in the far darkness behind the tent, where no lights could reveal them to anyone looking from the house out into the garden.

"He freaked a bit," Starsky answered in an equally low voice. "Because he was alone for too long, I think. We brought him to bed; he's sleeping now. I just checked."

Hutch nodded and sighed slightly. "How bad was it?"

"I don't know. Worst I've seen him, though. Pixie said he usually just needs to see other people then, but apparently it wasn't enough this time." He shrugged helplessly.

"Think it's getting worse?"

"Yeah."

"Damn," Hutch whispered, sincere sympathy coloring his voice, then frowned lightly, not entirely serious when he asked, "'Pixie said'? What, you have immunity now?"

Starsky smiled tiredly. "I'm really worried about him, Hutch," he said after a moment's thought, his gaze searching Hutch's. "He shouldn't be here."

"I know, but what can we do?"

"I don't know," Starsky sighed and drove a hand through his unruly curls. Absently, he started to pat at his pockets, a gesture Hutch had come to recognize.

Tilting his head to one side slightly - his surprised blinking unnoticed by Starsky - he watched in silence as his partner produced one of the crumpled cigarettes that he tended to keep in his pockets. He never carried a pack, but seemed to constantly carry around a supply of single ones. He was just searching for his lighter in the same way when he sensed Hutch's inquiring look upon him. Without even needing to look up at the blond, he took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth again and stashed it back into one pocket.

"Don't start," he muttered grimly, waving a tired index finger at Hutch, who lifted his hands in quiet defense. "I just wish there was something we could do. The guy is suffering, y'know?"

"I know, Starsk," Hutch said gently. "But this won't take forever, okay? As long as we're here, all we can do is keep an eye on him and wait 'til it's over. Then we'll put it in the report and he'll get the help he needs. Okay?" he asked, when there was no response.

"D'you think Gerardy knows about it?" Starsky asked instead of an answer. "He brought him here in the first place."

Hutch thought about it. "Well... you said yourself that it's worsening. Besides," he added, his voice softening, "not everyone would know, would they? Topher probably didn't tell him what he told you."

There was a long pause, then, tonelessly, "Yeah."

Hutch watched him for a moment, then reached out to touch his shoulder. "Hey."

Starsky glanced up.

"You okay?"

Understanding, the smaller man smiled gratefully, one hand coming up to assuringly pat the hand that remained on his arm. "Yeah, sure. Just..."

"Worried," Hutch concluded. "I know."

Starsky nodded and sighed, head bowed. When he looked up at his friend again, there was a wry grin visible on his face. "At least I got to punch Brighton, while I'm still allowed to."

Drawing his hand back, Hutch rolled his eyes. "Yeah, aren't we all glad you did that?"

"Hey, don't tell me you're on his side too! He started it!" Starsky defended himself, lifting his thumb as if for proof. "See? I think it's more bruised than before!"

Hutch didn't even look. "Can't see in the dark, Dummy. And you know you had that coming, don't you?"

"Oh! What did I do!"

"'Little General'!" Hutch repeated his earlier words, brows raised. "What was that about, anyway? Trying to push him into acting so you can sleep in a real bed again?"

"Aw, would I do that?" Starsky asked in feigned hurt innocence. "Force a criminal to commit a crime?"

"To get out of a tent? Any day."

"It's not like he doesn't want to commit a crime."

"Just nudging him, huh, Partner?"

"So? You're doing it. And don't give me that look. I know you're encouraging him, when he starts off rambling about all those innocent people he'd hate to kill."

"Just because I don't punch him, doesn't mean I'm encouraging him," Hutch said indignantly. "We're here to arrest them, when they go out to do something, not give them ideas."

"Uh-huh," Starsky nodded, unconvinced. "But what if they're too... slow," he said with emphasis, "with the ideas?"

Hutch sighed in mock resignation. "I'd better head back inside, before Christian gets suspicious."

At the mention of Christian's name, Starsky glanced up. Their eyes met.

"I know," Hutch nodded after a moment, frowning. "Didn't say who got him in in the file, d'you see?"

"Yeah," Starsky replied. "Ask Gerardy 'bout him?"

"Okay. When's he going to come back, anyway? It's been three days."

Starsky shrugged. "Don't ask me. He's not exactly the most organized person in the world."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed grimly. "That's for sure. Okay, I'm going to ask him about Christian, when he shows next. And Topher," he added, catching his partner's gaze.

Starsky nodded and yawned.

Hutch smiled, patting his shoulder assuringly. "'Kay then. See ya tomorrow, Snoop. Sleep tight." And with that he turned to leave.

"Don't call me Snoop," Starsky grumbled, but wasn't heard.

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If there was one thing Dave Starsky hated more than getting up in the morning, it was getting up in the morning in a tent. And if there was one thing he hated more than waking up in a tent, it was waking up in a tent after a rainy night.

So when he woke up that next morning, his nose wrinkling as if by its own will, before the rest of his body had even yet fully registered its state of wakefulness, the very first thing he consciously realized was that the soft wall of canvas he'd rolled against in his sleep was damp. As was his sleeping bag. In fact, he himself was too - save for his feet, of course. They were soaking wet.

'I hate camping!'

Only after the thought had caused an angry frown to settle on his face, he opened his eyes, blinking at the dark wet olive green of his ceiling and realized he wasn't even 'camping'. This was work.

With an unnerved groan, he squeezed his eyes shut again. Fingers that were slowed from residual sleepiness worked on unzipping the wet sleeping bag. 'Okay, so it's not real camping, but I still hate it. I hate tents, I hate sleeping bags, I hate non-waterproof, cheap canvas...' He sneezed loudly.

'And I hate rain!'

Once he'd crawled out of his damp sleeping place - the blankets had soaked up an impressive amount of water, too, looking as though they planned on applying for new jobs as sponges - he quickly discovered the cause for his discomfort. A small, sharp stone underneath the corner where the tent's floor met one wall had knifed a slender, but long cut into the canvas. There was still a small puddle right on the spot, but most of the water had been soaked up by other materials nearby.

Allowing another moan to escape, Starsky let his face fall into his hands, resignedly. The lower quarter of his sleeping bag and blankets had soaked through, and he hadn't even woken up!

'I'll never question Hutch again, when he insists I'm a deep sleeper...'

Fortunately, most of his clothes lay in neatly folded piles in the other far - dry - corner. So at least he'd found dry pairs of socks and jeans as well as a huge warm sweatshirt to wear, when he crawled out of his tent a few minutes later. It didn't change the fact that he was chilled through, though, and neither did the faint drizzle welcoming him outside.

'Great. Good Morning to you too, world.'

Snuggling up in his sweater, head ducked, he hurried over to the house, entering the kitchen through the backdoor. Through the window, he'd seen that he wasn't the only one up at this hour, but before he'd even had the chance to grumble a Baaad Morning wise-crack, another sneeze broke free.

"Gesundheit," Zadie and Hutch, who stood leaning against the breakfast bar, said. They were both unconsciously nursing their coffee in exactly the same manner.

Zadie only glanced at the entering Starsky, then turned back to the table again, where Brighton, Christian and Ethan Gerardy sat.

Catching the discreet, sympathetic look his partner cast him, Starsky briefly rubbed at his nose, bowing his head low enough for a quick glance to be exchanged. "Morning," he then grumbled. He had to cough a little afterwards and cleared his throat. "What gives? You look like Watergate."

Indeed they did, and the reactions to his casual greeting only confirmed his suspicion. Zadie quietly nudged his arm, since he'd come to a halt next to her, and Dobbs and Hutch shot him chiding glances, as if he could have sensed what was going on, if only he'd wanted to. It was the perfect picture of a group of insiders' reaction to an intruder, and he instantly felt guilty.

"Whoa, sorry," he therefore muttered, sounding slightly hurt, and lifted his hands. "Don't expect mind-reading before coffee, okay? Hey, Ethan," he added with emphasis and turned to look for the coffee pot. Without a word, Hutch poured him a cup and handed it to him.

"Mornin', Sam," Ethan Gerardy replied, casting the detective a wry smile. "How's life? I heard you've been all good manners in my absence again."

Starsky didn't even bother to look indignant at that. "He started it," he simply stated, accepting the coffee from Hutch. "Thanks, man."

"That's what you said about Topher," Gerardy insisted.

Starsky shrugged. "Because it was the truth then too," he answered matter-of-factly. A side glance to first Brighton Dobbs, then Hutch escaped him. He could see his partner was as impressed as he, himself, was about the fact that Brighton didn't even try to cut in once. He seemed to have surrendered totally to the background, since Gerardy had appeared on the scene again.

Gerardy smiled, but shook his head lecturingly. "Sam, Sam," he muttered. "What am I supposed to do with you? If this was a war, you'd be the enemy's ace, so far."

"If this was a war, there'd only have been one of 'em here to punch," Starsky retorted, glancing at Brighton, whose eyes sprung wide open in fury at this. Yet, the sharp reply that had undoubtedly started in the other man's throat was kept from being uttered by Gerardy quickly stating, "Okay. Just..." He shook a warning finger at Starsky. "Don't make a habit outta it, 'sall I'm saying. Alright?"

Lifting his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, Starsky took a sip from his coffee. "I didn't start it."

"As entertaining as Morning Manner School for Snoopy is," Hutch cut in, to Starsky sounding more like an exasperated partner than a bored Philip Hunter, "can we get back to business here, please? Ethan just arrived from San Francisco. Seems something went down with our people there."

Going from morning grumbling into undercover modus, Starsky fell silent, settling for watching Gerardy expectantly like the rest. He hadn't missed his partner's 'Pay attention!'-tone.

"Down is the word," Gerardy said with a sigh, his hand coming up to absently scratch at the back of his neck, as he looked into his coffee, continuing, "The whole group was made about ten days ago. That's why I went up there in the first place, right after my meeting. I hadn't heard from them in a while, they hadn't answered any calls, and when I arrived..." He waved. "The apartment is yellow-taped, and they're nowhere to be found. I checked some other possible hiding places, but nothing's come up, yet. Nada."

"What was their task?" Brighton asked at the same time that Zadie inquired, "Have you told Darren, yet?"

"They were about to leave and meet with some other folks in Sacramento to await further instructions on... something important," Gerardy answered reluctantly, then, to Zadie, "And, no, I haven't gotten through to him, yet."

"What did they keep in their apartment they could get booked for?" Hutch asked.

"Explosives," Ethan replied. "Mostly. Some stuff for the money-making on the way, far as I know."

Thoughtful stillness followed. Out of the corner of his eyes, Starsky could see Brighton Dobbs' hands nervously shove his coffee mug around in small circles on the table. The excitement that was building in him was palpable.

"How many are they?" Zadie asked, her voice calm, even, as if she was already collecting the information they would need to follow orders she seemed eager to accept.

"Four," Ethan answered.

"Where're they being held?"

Ethan sighed. "I have no idea. I couldn't find any of their contacts; I just saw the place, and I talked to some guy from the pub down the street who told me it all happened ten days ago. My guess is they were forced to reveal their contacts later, and that's how those people vanished too. There was no way of finding out they were gone, until I actually showed up there."

Safely hidden in his silence, Starsky emptied his cup to turn around to the breakfast bar, reaching out for the pot again. Like he'd expected, Hutch noticed the sign and turned slightly, seemingly coincidentally at the same time. They exchanged a quick glance.

"What was it they'd been assigned to do in Sacramento ?" Brighton asked. His eyes glowed, as if from too much caffeine, and his quivery hands encircled his cup, looking down into it with his head bent forward, as if there was a movie scene running in it.

"I can't tell you that," Gerardy said after a moment's thought.

Brighton looked up, searching Ethan's eyes. "Okay," he finally said. It sounded like a decision. Like he'd been asked to do something. "So what d'we do now?"

Gerardy lifted his brows. "Lay low?" he suggested. "What d'you think I told you all this for?"

For a moment, it actually looked like Dobbs wanted to answer to that. His mouth opened, then closed again.

"The feds probably know by now that they stumbled over something big, so all I want you guys to do is keep everything to a limit, until I've talked to Darren. That's what we'll do, Dobbs, got it? Wait for Darren's orders."

"Okay," Brighton muttered, waving one hand surrenderingly. "Got it."

"Did you really?" Gerardy asked sternly. "For this could mean big trouble for all of us, if they get our people to talk. So what I don't need on top of that is any interference from you guys. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal," Brighton said.

"Good." Letting a last long look linger on Dobbs, Ethan emptied his coffee with one gulp and stood. "Now, is there a place a man can get some real sleep at here or what?"

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It was some time later that Hutch finally found the opportunity to catch his partner alone, in the kitchen. His curly head seemed to almost vanish inside the fridge as he rummaged through it in the search for food. Checking the garden through the backdoor window, Hutch saw Topher and Pixie sitting on their porch, talking. Zadie and Christian had set off for a walk down to the beach, and for once, Dobbs had left with the car alone, in a near escape. To restore his hurt pride, probably.

"He's lying."

Starsky flinched violently, hitting his head against the upper fridge shelf. Glaring past the door at Hutch, he hissed, "Didn't I tell you to not do that!"

Hutch's apologetic smile only earned him a scowl, then Starsky returned to the fridge again, rubbing the sore spot on his head lightly.

"Yeah, I know," he commented on the blond's earlier statement.

"Why would a squad team yellow-tape a crime scene and not keep it observed well enough to catch him, when he shows? It doesn't make sense."

"I know, Hutch. The question is: why?"

"I don't know," Hutch mumbled, lost in thoughts. He was resting his elbow on top of the fridge, rubbing his chin with his hand. "What's he planning? Why didn't he tell us before?"

"Like I said," Starsky suggested, "he's unorganized." He sneezed.

"Gesundheit. Hey, does your tent have a hole? You didn't look your usual charming morning-self today."

"You oughta be a detective," Starsky grumbled and sniffed.

"Yeah, well, if you did catch a cold, you shouldn't be standing next to the open fridge for so long," Hutch commented and shrugged innocently, when his partner glared at him, all but throwing the door shut.

"Okay, now what do you suggest we do, ask Ethan about it?" Starsky asked, folding his arms in front of him.

"We'd better. Maybe he expects us to do something, and we've got no clue."

"Yeah," Starsky said, a shadow crossing his features. "Or maybe it's not us he's relying on."

Hutch furrowed his brows. "You don't think..." He tilted his head to one side, frown deepening.

"I don't know," the smaller man said. "But just think about what we said last night."

"We were joking around," Hutch pointed out.

"Maybe Gerardy doesn't have that sense of humor. Or professionalism, for that matter. I mean, were you surprised - at all - that none of 'our' guys even considered the possibility they could be under observation too?"

Hutch just looked at him.

"Ten days, Hutch. That's before I got here. And still none of them got suspicious. Not even Brighton. They hear what they want to hear, and Gerardy knows that."

"You really think he wants to push them into doing something to speed things up?"

Starsky waved one hand slightly. "I'm saying it's a possibility."

"Okay," Hutch muttered nervously. "Okay, but why would he order them to lay low then? Directly order them." He gestured at the front door. "Dobbs is scared of him, you've seen that. They respect him too much to-"

"Dobbs," Starsky interrupted him in a low voice, "is pissed." He let the words sink in and added, "Have you never disobeyed an order, because you felt you knew better?"

There was a very long silence, then, convinced, "You're right."

"Course I'm right, I'm always right. Now, what d'we do? I don't think Gerardy will be very impressed, if we let him know how we feel about his plan."

"No," Hutch agreed. Their eyes met. "I guess all we can do is play along, isn't it?"

Starsky grimaced. "Looks that way."

"Yep."

"Yep."

"I don't like it, though," Hutch stated.

"Me neither. But then, try looking at it this way: the sooner we bust them, the sooner we can go home."

"I know," Hutch muttered, not taking over the humor at all. "But what I wonder is what's Gerardy getting out of it?"

Before Starsky had any chance to answer, Norton McLean's door opened, revealing the lost son of the house, disheveled and sleepy-looking as ever. "Hey guys," he greeted them with a tired wave, as he shuffled his way over to the coffee pot. "Did I miss anything?"

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Dobbs hadn't returned by the time the sun was turning golden and the rain had stopped. It didn't surprise anyone - there had been a lot of pride to restore. Hutch welcomed the opportunity to get to talk more to the other members of the group, most of all Christian, whom he was still trying to figure out. Yet, true shadow that he was, he was never seen without Zadie nearby. His safe spot.

They were just inspecting the Flowermobile when Hutch approached them. It was a rare to see the colorfully sprayed, half-repaired car without either of its two protectors. But Topher had announced that he'd better 'check on our war equipment' after he'd heard the latest news, and Starsky was taking a nap on one of the mattresses in the 'lobby'. His cold hadn't improved any, and Hutch sighed inwardly when he thought about the countless 'See? If we had switched places... but nooo...'- comments he was bound to hear, once Starsky had rested and had the required energy for them to pop up in his head.

"Hey there," Zadie waved at the blond when she spotted him, smiling slightly. Ever since the Platoon Morning News, an increasingly tensed atmosphere had descended upon the group's members, as though they actually were a bunch of drafted soldiers ready to be sent into action. It was a feeling Hutch recognized easily, the mixture of fright and adrenalin, of the knowledge that you were about to do something important mingled with the nagging notion it might cost you everything you had.

He returned the smile. "Hey."

"Ethan up, yet?"

"No," Hutch shook his head. Gerardy must have had one hell of a day, whether or not he had been lying about his trip's real destination; he'd slept through the whole day.

Zadie checked her watch. "He probably will be soon, though. Maybe I should make him something to eat, then."

Hutch kept his silence, stifling a snicker. For all her anti-feminine, enlightened attitude, deep down there was the perfect housewife sitting in Susanna Morgan's soul, ever prepared to jump up from her place on the knitting chair to serve. Whenever he came across those revelations, Hutch felt reminded of some of the girls he'd known in college. Spoiled, upper-class chicks who were all talk - important, deeply insightful political talk - but at the same time the perfect opposite of what they were discussing. They believed themselves to be emancipated, when indeed it was obvious they were just doing the small talk in order to find a husband. Street scum couldn't be worse liars then those women.

His gaze wandering over to the Flowermobile, he reached out to brush over a particularly bright spot in the spraying. "Whose car is this, anyway?"

Zadie looked at him, a frown starting.

"I mean," Hutch quickly explained, "whose is it originally?"

"Good question," Zadie replied after a moment's thought and glanced at Christian, who gave the ghost of a shrug. "Probably McLean's," she concluded. "Why're you asking?"

"Just interested," Hutch answered casually.

Zadie watched him in silence for a moment. "Hunter?" she asked at last.

"Hmm?" Hutch blinked up.

"What do you make out of... all of it? What Ethan told us?"

"What d'you mean?" Hutch asked innocently.

"What do you think we should... do?" She slightly bowed her head, as if they were sharing a conspiratorial thought. Out of the corner of his eyes Hutch could see Christian's gaze flicker between them nervously.

Hutch let a moment pass by, choosing his words. "I don't see how that is our decision," he said calmly, but locked eyes with her for a moment. "Why, what do you think?"

She was about to answer - too quickly for a wise reply, the detective thought - but closed her mouth, determined, when she spotted someone approaching them from the house's side. Hutch turned to see Ethan Gerardy walking over the damp, fresh grass, arms spread out for a drowsy stretch. When he noticed the small group, he smiled, stashed his hands in his pockets and stepped over to them.

"Don't you guys tell me you're begging for a new ride, too, now," he greeted them and knocked on the car's hood, bending as if listening to the echo. "Perfect shape, if you ask me. Where are the car boys at this time of the day, anyway?" he added with dry humor, looking around.

Zadie smiled sociably. "Have a nice nap?"

"Yeah, thanks. How about," he checked his watch, "a very late breakfast?"

Hutch kept himself from rolling his eyes at that manipulating tone. He obviously hadn't been the only one to come across Zadie-like women in his life.

Unaware of her own predictability, Zadie nodded eagerly. "Sure. I'll go make you something right away, Ethan. No prob."

The smile on Gerardy's face popped into a grin. "Thanks, Honey. You're the best. Hey," he held her back, "is Dobbs around here, somewhere? I've looked for him, but-"

"He went to... do the shopping," Zadie explained hesitantly. "He should be back soon." Once more, she turned to go, Christian Gruder behind her, but stopped. "Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss with Dobbs?" she asked, some nagging twinge in her voice betraying the faked innocence of the question.

Gerardy looked at her, mockingly surprised. "Yes," was all he answered.

To Hutch's disbelief, when he bowed his gaze, just a tad, to stifle a snicker - he could see Christian doing the same!

Zadie seemed to know she was on the losing end, so with a scowl she turned for the last time, angry determination marking her moves. She had just passed the cabin's side, when she slowed her steps, then stopped fully.

Hutch could see her features strain. Christian, behind her, paled.

Standing with his back to them, Gerardy hadn't seen. "Hunter, can I..." At Hutch's sharp wave, he trailed off and turned too, just in time to watch Christian ever so carefully shoot them a pleading look.

"Something's off," Hutch muttered unnecessarily and hurried after them, Gerardy closely behind. As if on cue, Zadie was just slowly raising her hands, as if to calm someone down. Someone dangerous.

'Damn!' Hutch thought, as the realization hit him like a blow. 'Topher.'

He was right. It was Topher, who had stopped Zadie on her way, though it seemed she hadn't needed to stop, maybe mustn't have. He was sitting on the grass, huddled against the wooden wall of the cabin, with a gun held in such a cramped position that he appeared to hug it to himself. Like a comfort-gun, Hutch thought grimly. The ex-POW shook like a leaf.

"Topher?" Zadie asked frightfully. She still had her hands up. It looked eerie; he wasn't threatening her. "Are you okay?"

At hearing her voice, he ducked his head lower with a sharp move that drew his forehead against the barrel of the gun. His lips moved slightly, soundless mumbles being seemingly directed at himself.

Like the gun.

"Topher," Zadie tried again, more urgently, but before she could go on, Hutch's hand on her arm stopped her. He shook his head softly, so as to not startle the confused man on the ground further. His mind raced - he knew how to deal with this situation. He was pretty sure he would have been able to drag Topher back into reality. But - Philip Hunter wouldn't, would he? How should he explain his expertise to Zadie and Christian afterwards, when his alias' biography lacked any events to have possibly enabled him to deal with post-war flashbacks?

"What's that he's saying?" Zadie's half-loud voice broke through his brainstorming.

He glanced down at her next to him, and answered, "'Won't let them get me'", while the answer to his own question jumped at him with full force. What was he standing here for, contemplating! He wasn't alone! "Christian, go get Sta... Sam."

Christian didn't move, stared at him, terrified.

"Snoop," Zadie snapped at him, as if she thought he hadn't understood the order. She pushed him lightly. "Go get Snoopy."

He was off like a shot.

"Good thinking," Gerardy muttered next to Hutch, who ignored him. He kept his gaze focused on Topher, ready to jump into action if there was no other way.

Topher was calm for now. They weren't talking to him anymore. He didn't care about being stared at, just as long as they didn't talk to him. He wouldn't let them interrogate him again. He wouldn't let them.

Hutch tensed. He knew the look forming in the other man's eyes. The growing determination. Suppressing a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at the house. In the far distance, a car's engine could be heard. It stopped. A door slammed shut.

Hutch and Gerardy exchanged a startled look.

"Dobbs," Gerardy said urgently.

Hutch nodded. "Go keep him away," he whispered.

Ethan didn't look convinced. His gaze flew to Topher and back.

"It's okay" Hutch said assuringly. He nodded once more, looking past Ethan at the house's back door, where a very startled, sleepy-looking Starsky appeared, followed by Brighton Dobbs, who stopped short, unsure of what to do.

"Go," Hutch ordered sharply, and finally Gerardy obeyed.

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Starsky didn't look at the undercover agent when he passed him. His gaze was focused on Topher Martin. His steps were quick, large, but he didn't run, didn't visibly hurry. When he reached the small group, he shot Hutch a very brief glance. It didn't carry any message, he just wanted to make sure Hutch was there.

Carefully, he crouched down, so that he was on eye-level with Topher. "Topher?" It was a mere whisper, gentle and surprised. Surprised, because it startled Starsky to see the other man like this. Scared him even.

"Hey." Starsky waited for a reaction, but nothing came. "Topher."

Topher ducked his head deeper, so that his forehead was pressed more firmly against the gun.

Starsky swallowed dryly. He didn't feel so sure about the whole situation, and it frightened him that he didn't. He wanted to turn to look at Hutch for reassurance, but was very aware of Zadie's presence. Hutch would have done a much better job than he here, he thought, but undercover-wise, it was his field of experience. After all, there had been a reason for them to decide that keeping an eye on Topher Martin was his job, hadn't there?

And, hell, he did have experiences. He knew. He'd been there. Seen it.

Just not from Hutch's side of the fence. So why was he so scared?

'Easy. Because you are on Hutch's side of the fence now,' he thought grimly, feeling the increasing nervousness ebb away at his own chiding inside his head. 'And he's counting on you. So stop whining and do something!'

He drew in a quiet, deep breath, bracing himself. He could do this. "Topher? Can ya hear me?"

The other man tensed. The gun in his hand shook so badly that Starsky wondered if it was even working, since it hadn't gone off by now. He waited patiently for an answer.

"I won't..." Topher started in a quivery whisper, eyes squeezed shut. He trailed off, bit his lip.

Starsky waited. When it became clear Topher wouldn't speak on, he waved casually, allowing his voice to sound more confident, but still soft, comforting. "That's alright, you don't have to," he said.

There was a pause in the other one's shivering, as if his body itself stopped to wonder about Starsky's words. He frowned.

Starsky waited.

"I won't let them... I won't," Topher said, determined. His eyes were still closed, but he had lifted his head, so that the others could see his face.

"Sure, man," Starsky assured. "I understand. I wouldn't let them, either. I'm on your side. You know that, don't you?"

Topher opened his eyes. The frown was still there, as he searched Starsky's face, puzzled.

The detective smiled in mock hurt, spreading his hands slightly in a 'Come on!'-sort of gesture. "Don't say you don't recognize me."

Topher stared at him with his mouth hanging open. A sudden noise from the house drew his attention away from the curly-headed man in front of him and towards the back door. Instantly, his features softened. "Pix..." he whispered.

Not bothering to look over his shoulder, Starsky carefully bent forward, secretly reaching for the gun that started to slid into a dangling hold in Topher's fingers.

"Glad you have your priorities all sorted out," he muttered dryly. The moment he could grab the gun, he came to his feet, not hastily, but quickly, and stepped away from Topher, whom Pixie approached with a worried expression. Her eyes darted from the gun in Starsky's hand back down to her boyfriend.

"Baby? What's going on?"

"It's okay now," Starsky muttered softly, when her confused look found him and stepped away, leaving her to take care of Topher. She crouched down next to him, stroking his face, crooning soft words. The situation didn't seem alien to her, and the way Topher relaxed under her caressing hands spoke volumes.

Unloading the gun, Starsky discreetly waved Zadie and Hutch away. With a last, relieved glance over his shoulder, he followed them to the back door, where Christian, Dobbs and Gerardy stood. They went inside.

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"Good job," Hutch said, once they were inside, and gave Starsky's back a gentle pat. "Sam."

To his worried surprise, there came no wisecrack in return. Just a tired "Yeah", when Starsky sank down in one of the kitchen chairs. The hand he lifted to drive through his hair was shaking slightly. At feeling Zadie's gentle grip on his neck behind him, he flinched away, but quickly cleared his throat so as to make it look like an accidental move.

It took all Hutch had to not study his friend with open concern, when he too sat down. Gerardy took the last free seat, rubbing his eyes. "Boy," he muttered. "Good Morning, Ethan."

Starsky smiled.

An eerie stillness settled, marked by a nervous relief. Dobbs was the first to speak again. "What the hell was that! What happened?"

"Topher freaked," Zadie explained with a sigh, her tone low, discreet. As if it was a piece of information that somehow included Starsky.

And indeed he did react. "He had a flashback," he corrected sharply. "Of 'Nam." He glanced up at Dobbs and Zadie. It suddenly stroke Hutch that Christian was nowhere to be seen.

"Topher was a POW with the Vietcong," Starsky continued grimly and took in the reactions on the other's faces, including Gerardy's. "I take it you didn't know that."

"Did he tell you that?" Ethan asked.

"Yep."

"Wow," Zadie muttered, more to herself than to anyone else. "With the Vietcong? Wow." She paused. "Explains a lot."

Next to her, Dobbs nodded. "Oh, yeah."

Out of pure reflex, Hutch's hand snatched forward to close around his partner's wrist in an assuring grasp, but Starsky jerked away. "What's that supposed to mean?" he growled.

"Well," Zadie started, "he's always been a bit..." She hesitated.

"Dangerous," Dobbs concluded, but received a scowl from her.

"Odd," she corrected.

Dobbs snorted. "Whatever. The question is: what d'we do with him now?"

"I think," Starsky snapped, "the question is-"

"What d'you mean?" Hutch interrupted him quickly, ignoring his friend's glare.

Dobbs looked from one to the other. He seemed to not understand the questioning glances directed at him. "Well, we can't just let him run around here anymore, can we?" he said excitedly, spreading his arms in a wide gesture that resulted in pointing at the back door. "He could've killed someone out there!"

"Or himself," Starsky stated.

Dobbs cast him an icy glance. "He's someone, too."

For a moment, their eyes met. "What do you suggest we do!" Starsky barked at last. "Lock him away!"

Dobbs didn't answer. Zadie bowed her gaze.

"Aw, come on!" Starsky exclaimed and stood, taking a step away from the table, so that it now appeared like the middle line of a battle field. Gerardy and Hutch exchanged a helpless glance.

"You gotta be kidding! Where d'you wanna put him! In the cabin? The cellar? Don't we have a nice, clean cage on hand!"

"Snoop-" Zadie muttered softly, but she wasn't going to be heard.

"Why don't you just shoot him right now, if you want to treat him like they did, anyway!"

"Okay, smartass," Dobbs shot back, "what do you suggest we do!"

"Help him!"

"How!"

"I don't know!" Starsky yelled. In the following silence, he looked down at Gerardy. "He can't stay here," he said, more calmly. "He needs help."

Before Gerardy had a chance to answer, Dobbs intervened. "Oh, hey, wait. You aren't thinking of bringing him to a hospital, are you? We can't do that! He might tell them all about us!"

"Why would he do that?" Starsky snapped.

"Because he's crazy!"

Hutch's gaze flew up at Starsky, a silent plea forming in his eyes. 'Don't flip out, Partner. Please.'

Starsky must've heard his thoughts, because he remained miraculously calm, his only answer a growl. "You're such an asshole, Brighton."

"Maybe," Dobbs replied smugly. "But I'm right."

"We can't keep him forever," Hutch pointed out. Noticing that everyone looked at him, surprised at him for even bothering to participate in the discussion, he shrugged. "Can we?"

"We won't stay here forever," Dobbs replied gravely.

"Brighton is right," Gerardy said. "When the group moves, we can send him to a hospital. We won't tell him where you're going then. But as long as we have this West Coast situation on our hands, we can't take any risks. And Topher is a risk," he added to Starsky. When the detective frowned angrily, he smiled with a half shrug. "After all, we do have Pixie, right? And we have you to keep an eye on him. Just don't let him get near any guns again."

He seemed finished with the topic, turning to Zadie, but Starsky's voice held him back. "If we lock him into his cabin, it'll get worse. It is getting worse already."

Gerardy sighed in annoyance. "It's not my fault life's a bitch sometimes, okay?"

"It's inhumane!"

"It's how it is, Snoop!" Gerardy snapped, effectively shutting the detective up. "We didn't make him that way."

Starsky opened his mouth, but once more caught his partner's gaze and closed it again. Without any further word, he stormed out of the room, throwing the door shut behind himself.

Gerardy didn't look after him. "Well," he said, "now that we have that settled - I'm hungry. Zadie?"

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Dawn was lingering behind impressive mountains of clouds, a massive gray shield blocking the pale, fragile rays of newborn light. It smelled of wet grass and fresh air, and though it had stopped raining some time ago, the ground was still muddy and slippery, when Hutch hurried over it to the tent. The tent bore no source of light this time, but stood still and serene, like a piece of nature.

He wasn't surprised to find Starsky sitting in the entry hole, wrapped in a bunch of blankets.

"Hey," he greeted Hutch tiredly and put out the rest of a cigarette on the ground outside next to his feet, where a small pile of cigarette butts already lay.

Crawling inside the entry to sit on the canvas next to his friend, Hutch nodded at the spot. "Polluting the environment?"

"Yep," came the unimpressed reply.

At the clear rejection of easy bantering, Hutch sighed slightly. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked gently. Unnecessarily too, since he'd taken in Starsky's appearance before.

"Nope."

Hutch waited and after a short pause asked, "Fix the tent?"

"Nope."

Again, the blond waited for more, then bent forward to peek up into the grayish pale sky. "Looks like rain again."

Starsky shrugged.

"Wanna switch rooms?"

Surprised, Starsky turned his head, meeting Hutch's smiling eyes. With a soft laugh breaking through, he shook his head.

Relieved, Hutch playfully punched his shoulder.

"Okay, okay," Starsky said, waving his hands as if in defense. "I'm just pissed. Sorry."

Hutch gazed at him understandingly. "Did you check on Topher again?" he asked.

Starsky shook his head. "Spoke to Pixie, when she went to get some food. He's been pretty out of it since..." He trailed off. "I'm gonna go talk to him tomorrow."

"You did a good job back there," Hutch said, nodding reassuringly when a nervous glance flickered up at him.

Starsky didn't answer.

"Starsk," Hutch said firmly, waiting for the other man's eyes to find his. "You did a good job."

"Yeah," Starsky muttered, unconvinced.

Something was deeply troubling him, Hutch could sense that. He let a worried look wander from Starsky's nature-made ashtray to his partner's strained features. Starsky wasn't looking at him, but at the greenish mud between his feet, a constant crease edged into his forehead.

"Hey." Hutch gently nudged one drawn-up knee. Starsky looked up. "You couldn't have done anything for him. Don't beat yourself up over it, huh?"

Starsky smiled gratefully, but shook his head. "It's not that."

Hutch frowned. "Okay, then wh..." Catching his friend's quick, embarrassed glance, he trailed off, understanding. "Oh," he sighed deeply and leaned back slightly, bringing one arm up to lay it around the smaller man's shoulders. He gently dragged him a bit closer, patting Starsky's arm. "Aw, Pal, you were a lot easier to handle, believe me."

Starsky snorted a nervous chuckle, head hanging low, careful to avoid looking at Hutch, who wisely let him have the few seconds he needed to recompose himself. When the curly head came up again with a deep breath, he drew his arm away, but only so much that he could still rest his hand on Starsky's shoulder. Deep blue eyes found his, gratitude mingling with the fading remains of shame.

Hutch smiled comfortingly. He knew that look. From a long time ago, when their friendship had still been rather new, though already something that struck you as extraordinary, when you stopped to really think about it - like something you'd grown into, or a change that you hadn't noticed before. For, like everything important in life, it seemed to have, all of a sudden, always been there. Good things, they try to change the past as they settle in the present.

And back then, they had still been there, Starsky's flashbacks. Not regular ones, most of the time nothing more than very bad, shaking nightmares, but occasionally they had managed to grab him unawares, when his guard had been down, and, yes, Hutch had seen. The fear and the horror and this barely-bearable feeling of just having completely lost control.

As time had gone on, they had faded along with the years, the flashbacks, settled in the past where they belonged. But still Hutch remembered that look of crushing embarrassment on his friend's face, when he had become aware of what had just happened, when he'd suddenly came to his senses again, finding himself huddled in a corner in either his or Hutch's apartment with the blond hovering nearby, soothing, comforting, openly offering support and care.

Over the years, they had both lost that sort of embarrassment, or maybe it had just been transformed into utter gratitude at having someone on your side who you could allow to witness your darkest moments. Even when you were at your lowest and couldn't fall any deeper. They didn't have to be ashamed of clinging, when it was necessary, or of needing the other one. It was understood.

But what Hutch also understood was that it was different to see the exact same thing happening to another person. To all the time know 'This is how I looked like. This is what I said. I behaved like that.' It could get to you, watching a mirror image of your own vulnerability.

Yet, just as Topher Martin's suffering had brought back parts of Starsky's own past for him, so did the look he now saw in Hutch's eyes, the sensation of his mere presence. The wordless, understood comfort Starsky knew was okay for him to need. To accept.

Reaching up, he placed his hand over Hutch's on his shoulder, but tore it away again quickly, when a loud sneeze broke free.

"Gesundheit," Hutch smiled, teasingly backing away from him.

Starsky sniffed through an intelligible grumble. "Boy, I can't wait for this to be over, I'm tellin' ya. This case is-" He sneezed again.

"That's what I wanted to say," Hutch quipped. "But, y'know, could be you'll be sleeping in between walls again sooner than we thought."

Cop mode kicking in, Starsky lifted his brows hopefully, all ears. "How's that?"

"Ethan left, while you were down at the beach," Hutch told him, "and I think-"

"Wait a sec, he left!" Starsky interrupted him incredulously. "He just got here! Where did he go? Did he talk to you?"

"Well, you could say that," Hutch replied sarcastically. "He said not to interfere with his plan, and that we have to wait for him and Perry to decide when we'll bust anyone. Oh," he added in feigned seriousness, "and I'm to tell you to try and keep punching people to a minimum, if possible."

Starsky visibly chose to ignore that one. "His plan?" he repeated instead. "So what, we were right?"

"I thought you were always right," Hutch said casually.

"Yeah, sure," Starsky replied, equally unimpressed by the discovery. "But how did Ethan find out? Has he said when he'll be back?"

"Few days."

"Few days," the smaller man echoed disgustedly. "Great. He's always 'a few days'. And you call that soon!"

Hutch shrugged. "In comparison to Gerardy's time," he said, earning a scowl. "Anyway," he quickly continued, before his friend could start whining, "I had a chat with Dobbs afterwards, and you were right. He's pissed."

"Hey, they don't let me carry a badge for nothing. Can read people like books. So, what'd he say? He wants to try and get those San Fran guys free, of whom we don't even know if they exist, yet, right?"

"They really don't let you carry a badge for nothing," Hutch replied dryly.

"I keep telling ya! Okay - so what's the plan? He doesn't know where they are, or has Ethan let something slip?"

"Nope," Hutch answered.

Catching a nervous flicker cross the blond's face, Starsky turned so that he was directly facing him. "Alright, shoot."

Hutch pressed his lips together, glancing at his friend. "You do understand Ethan's orders mean that we have to play along for as long as he and Perry think it appropriate."

"Yeees," Starsky nodded, stretching the word.

"And that means we have to hooray Dobbs' plan and not lose our cool and blow it all."

"Whatever gets me home."

"Right," Hutch nodded slowly, tensed as if sensing he was getting close to thin ice. "And if whatever gets you home turns out to be something you want to punch Dobbs for again, you won't do it, because then it'll lose its getting-you-homeiness, won't it?"

Starsky just looked at him for a long moment. "Okay, give it to me straight. What's the crazy little professor's plan? Drop a nuke?"

"Attack a school."

"What!" Hutch sighed. He closed his eyes, briefly, before casting his partner a grave look. "He wants to take a school hostage to get the Frisco people free."

"A school!" Starsky exploded. "He wants to threaten kids! What is he, nuts! Oh wait, what am I saying!"

"Calm down," Hutch said, gesturing quietly. "It won't happen, we won't let him. But it's his plan, and that's what we'll have to work with until Ethan returns."

"And what if he won't wait for Ethan's return?" Starsky asked.

"I believe he will," Hutch answered. "I think he'll try to convince him of it. Today really got to him. He wants to be the genius with the master plan, and I think Ethan knows that. Probably part of his plan too."

Starsky let go of a grumbled sigh, rubbing his tired features. "Man, I'm beginning to hate this guy."

"Who, Ethan or Dobbs?"

"Both," Starsky growled. "I mean, what is it with Gerardy keeping us out of everything all the time? What're we, the hound dogs! We never know where he is, we don't know what he's up to..." He shook his head, frustrated. "And Dobbs!" he suddenly burst out. "What the hell is wrong with this guy! 'I'm the very last person who'd kill innocent people for this, but if I have to, it's gotta be kids!'"

Hutch grinned at the perfect imitation of Brighton Dobbs.

"It's not even a good plan! How does he think he'll get out of there alive, afterwards! Doesn't he know a school with a hostage situation is going to be swarmed by cops within a minute! That's the most ridiculous plan I've ever heard!"

"I've a notion he doesn't plan on going in there himself," Hutch pointed out quietly.

Still too upset to comment on that, Starsky let out an angry breath. "When they sentence him, I wanna be there to watch."

Hutch laughed softly, patting his back reassuringly. "Everything you want, Buddy. I'll drive you there. But until then - d'you think you can manage to keep your opinion to yourself, when he presents his glorious idea to us all?"

"Oh, sure," Starsky answered, his voice taking on a high-pitched tone. "Sure! I'll cheer, if you want me to."

"If you could just not attack and strangle him, that'd be beautiful."

"Okay!" the curly-haired detective accepted graciously.

"Okay," Hutch nodded as if for reassurance.

"Okay." With a wide gesture, Starsky shot him a 'Happy now!'-glance, brows raised, then patted at his pockets, until he found a crumpled cigarette and stuck it between his lips with angry determination. When he reached out to grab the lighter on the ground next to him, Hutch snatched it away.

"Hey!" Starsky protested.

"What 'hey'? I thought we both know you can stop again."

"And I can!" Starsky insisted, trying to grab the lighter from Hutch, who held it too far away.

"Well, prove it."

"I happen to still be undercover, now gimme that!" Starsky barked in a tone impressive enough to cause Hutch to drop the lighter into his outstretched hand.

"You know something, Starsk? You're gonna regret this, when we're back in real life," the blond lectured.

"Yeah, aren't you grateful I saved you from it?" Starsky grumbled in response.

Hutch sighed. "I'd better go get some shuteye," he announced, blinking into the beginning daylight. A faint drizzle had started, and when Hutch moved to crawl out into the open, a few drops loosened from the tent's upper side, landing on Starsky's burning cigarette with a precision Hutch couldn't help but chuckle about.

"T'riffic," Starsky muttered gloomily. "Hey," he called after Hutch, "what about switching rooms now!"

Getting to his feet in front of the tent, the blond shook his head with a frown. "Nah, don't like that smell of cold smoke everywhere. See ya later, Snoop."

"I hope you slip!" Starsky informed him.

"Try to get some sleep," Hutch answered and hurried back to the house, without slipping.

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Somehow, Starsky ended up being the one to break the news to Pixie about what had been decided among the group concerning Topher, and to everyone's surprise, it seemed to work. The girl took care of her boyfriend physical needs, and she stayed with him inside of the cabin, most of the time. Not once did he try to leave his confinement, and for Brighton and Zadie he seemed to have ceased to exist. They didn't mention his name anymore, didn't talk about the cabin, nothing. Topher had vanished from the group, like an unpleasant family member that had once been there, but was now deceased.

Christian, though, paled every time he walked past the cabin and after half a day seemed to try to keep being in the garden to a minimum altogether. McLean's opinion on the whole matter had been a toneless "wow", though even that had surprised Hutch, who'd expected something along the lines of "Who's Topher?" from the young man. If Christian was a shadow, McLean was a ghost, the forgotten uncle of the family, never outside his room for longer than a trip to the kitchen or bathroom, and the others only thought of him when they needed money. That, Hutch had found out pretty soon after his arrival in Camp California - it was financed almost entirely by Norton McLean. If the group had been a firm, McLean would've been its silent partner.

So the house' inhabitants quickly forgot all about Topher, other than a relief that he was gone. But on the second day of Topher's imprisonment, Hutch had a brief opportunity to talk to Starsky, who dropped by the cabin twice each day. The concerned crease edged into Starsky's forehead, the strain around his mouth, spoke volumes.

"Not good, huh?" Hutch asked sympathetically.

Starsky sighed, shook his head.

Hutch squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "It's gonna be over soon," he muttered.

"It'd better be," Starsky replied, locking eyes with Hutch. "He's losing it. Pixie tries to get him to sleep a lot, but..."

Catching the guilty tone, as his friend trailed off, Hutch tightened his hold on Starsky's shoulder. "Starsk. There's nothing we can do right now."

"I know," came the unconvinced reply. "I know." Eyes desperately seeking understanding locked with Hutch's.

With no need to voice his thoughts, Hutch returned the glance reassuringly.

"Yeah," Starsky finally mumbled, when the contact was broken. He drew in a deep breath. "Yeah. I know."

They had to split. Hutch was expected back inside, and with a parting pat on Starsky's back, he walked past him. "Take care, partner."

Starsky didn't answer, but returned to his work on the Flowermobile. Since Topher's disappearance, he had found himself pretty much deserted, left alone with the car most of the time, unless they were discussing Dobbs' idea. Even Zadie's interest in him had faded in comparison to her dedication to The Plan.

True to Hutch's prediction, the day after Ethan's departure Dobbs had told the rest of the group about his idea of taking a school hostage in order to free their fellow platoon members, and it had changed everything. There it was, what they'd all been waiting for for so long: a task.

To say that Zadie was delighted would have been an understatement. She was ecstatic. Finally, after all this time of discussing and arguing, talk, talk, talk - finally there was a goal to achieve. A mission to accomplish. Finally, her true talents were needed, her gift for organization, for planning. It seemed that she had, overnight, turned into the loudest member of the group, always on the search for someone to deliver some orders, or make suggestions, and an outsider might have even gotten the impression that she was the boss, after all. Calling the shots.

But Hutch knew that she was calling Brighton's shots.

It was Dobbs' plan, and there was no doubting his superiority, anymore. The morning he'd let the group in on his great coup, he and Hutch had driven to San Francisco, looking for a fitting target. What they had decided upon - after Dobbs' fiercely determined suggestion - was a private elementary school in a western part of the city, small, with colorfully decorated windows. A nice, clean looking building. Kids, chatting happily with each other, unaware of the doom lingering nearby in a parked jeep, had just been arriving at that hour, most of them accompanied by their mothers or fathers. They had crowded the door in little groups, a giggly mass of moving colors, high voices, laughter.

"Rich kids," Dobbs had muttered in a near spat, staring at the scenery from behind the wheel.

Hutch had just gazed at him sideways.

The Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School - 'Teddy's School' for the inhabitants of Camp California - had from then on been officially under observation, at least during school hours. Zadie had come up with a neatly scheduled plan, and so two changing members were responsible for watching the school each day, notin down irregularities (that never occurred) and getting to know the area. According to Dobbs, it was a necessity that everyone know exactly where all the exits were, which adults were coming and going at what times, and approximately how many kids were inside on which days.

"T'riffic. Undercover stakeouts," Starsky grumbled to Hutch on the blond's daily trip to the tent the night after Zadie's presentation of the schedule, which now hung in the kitchen like a family's calendar. "Why did we agree to this shit again?"

"'Cause the country needed us," Hutch replied dryly, not really paying attention to his partner's complaints. "But d'you know something? We're on duty together the day after tomorrow."

Starsky frowned as if thinking. "Really?"

"Yeah, I checked. Tomorrow's Zadie and me, and the next day-"

"You're on twice in a row?"

"Um... yeah," Hutch replied, puzzled. "You too. Didn't you see? The day after that, you'll be driving with Chris-"

"And what about Dobbs!" Starsky exclaimed, reminding Hutch of a little kid moaning about the unfairness of being the younger one. He wondered where Starsky had learned that tone, though - he'd never been the younger one.

"I'm sure Brighton will be going next week," Hutch said calmly, patting his partner's shoulder teasingly.

"Oh, sure! That'll be the day! I bet he-"

"Starsk," Hutch cut him off patiently and waited until the smaller man was looking at him. Without any further words, he just lifted his brows.

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, nyah, nyah. But it's not fair," he added in a mumbled grumble.

"Life usually isn't," Hutch commented wisely, ignoring the glare he received for that. "But we've got more important things to talk about."

Suddenly turning from an upset boy into a cop again, Starsky furrowed his brows. "What d'you wanna do, contact Perry?"

"I was thinking more of Dobey."

Eyes wandering off, as he followed that thought, Starsky pursed his lips, shrugging. "Good idea. But will we make it in time?"

"It's about the same distance to Frisco, isn't it?"

Convinced, Starsky nodded. "'Kay. I'll drive."

Hutch laughed, shook his head and crawled out of the tent again.

"I mean that!" Starsky called after him. "I'll drive!"

Hutch just waved without turning.

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"I think we did good." When no answer came from the driver's seat, Zadie turned to look at Hutch, who was just stifling a yawn. "Don't you?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes." He nodded tiredly. "Sure."

"Yes," she repeated happily, leaning back in her seat with the contentment of the hardworking. Gazing outside at the passing streets bathed in the bright golden late of afternoon, she breathed in as if savoring spring air even through the rolled-up window. "Man, I'd completely forgotten how great it feels to actually be working. Y'know," she glanced at him, "to do something after you've gotten up. Know what I mean?"

Hutch didn't even bother nodding. "Mm-hmm," he muttered, clenching his jaws against yet another yawn. 'Know what I'd forgotten, lady? How boring stakeouts are.'

"I mean, don't you just love the thrill of it all?" Zadie rambled on next to him. "This great feeling of... purpose?" she added excitedly.

Hutch rubbed his eyes. "Mm-hmm. Purpose," he mumbled, but she wasn't paying attention to him, anymore.

"This is going to be huge, Hunter. I can feel it. Darren's not gonna believe it." A happy giggle followed.

Thinking he didn't believe her, either, Hutch sighed regretfully. If there was one good thing that had come out of this whole undercover assignment so far, it was that he was bound to remember being grateful for Starsky's presence next time they were on a stakeout together. His partner might not be much less talkative than Brighton Dobbs or Zadie Morgan, but at least he wasn't boring.

'Boy, I mustn't ever tell Starsk that,' Hutch thought with dry humor. 'He'll never let me hear the end of it.'

But then, right now he'd have chosen never hearing the end of it over one more minute spent with Zadie. Shooting her a quick glance, he noticed she was still talking, nonstop. He shook his head to himself. 'When I get promoted one day and am in charge of hiring people, I'll invent a 'fit for stakeouts'-test.'

"Hunter?"

'I could use Starsk for it. Like, where's the test person's boiling point?'

"Hey, Hunter."

'Five minutes is an A, two minu-'

"Hunter!"

Jumping at a sudden touch to his shoulder, he snapped his head to his right, staring at Zadie. "Huh! Wh-what?"

She scowled. "Were you listening to me at all?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure!"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, icily. "Because you just missed the off-ramp back there."

"Oh?" He looked over his shoulder. "Oh. Um... h-how about taking the scenic route?" He smiled sweetly.

Half an hour of blissful, if tensed, silence later they arrived at the house. Hutch sighed in relief, letting himself fall back into the seat for a relaxing breath after stopping the engine. He felt more like he was returning from an 18-hour stakeout than from a six-hour one, beat, worn out, his back hurting, his head aching... Blinking with tired sarcasm, he cast the sulking, emerging Zadie a glance. Amazing how people could stretch time when they wanted to, wasn't it?

Shaking his head slightly, he finally followed her outside and to the house. When she stopped abruptly in the front door, he almost stumbled into her.

"What the...!"

Alarmed by her incredulous outburst, he looked past her, deeper into the 'lobby' - and froze.

"Hey, guys!" Brighton Dobbs greeted them with a wild grin, waving his free hand. The one that wasn't pointing a gun at Starsky's head. "Guess what we found out, while you were away!"

Hutch swallowed dryly, ice-cold fear knotting his insides. He didn't need to guess. His partner was kneeling on the floor with his hands folded behind his neck, elbows outstretched and focusing on him with fierce urgency, willing him to read his thoughts. And Hutch did, his gaze flickering up at Brighton again, as he hastened to process the situation.

'They don't know about me. Yet.'

His mind racing, logic working desperately on keeping at bay the frightened urge to tear the gun away from Starsky's head right now, he closed the door behind himself, not once breaking the calm, unconcerned appearance of Philip Hunter, while Zadie stormed inside excitedly.

"Brighton, what the fuck is going on here! What're you doing!"

"What am I doing?" Dobbs repeated sarcastically, savoring every moment. "Well," he pursed his lips, shoulders lifted in a half shrug, "I think it's called 'threatening a police officer'." Seemingly out of nowhere, a silver badge appeared in his free hand.

Puzzled, Zadie took it. The frown on her face faded into a disbelieving, blank look. "Oh, my..." she muttered, staring at the item. Her head shook slowly as if on its own accord.

Hutch stepped up, gazing over her shoulder at his friend's badge. "Starsky," he sighed. For everyone but the captured detective, it sounded like he was merely reading the name aloud. Allowing himself another quick look at Starsky, he saw a thin streak of blood trickling down his left temple. A bruise was forming there.

'Damn it, Starsk.'

"Crazy, huh?" McLean said, truly impressed. He was sitting on one of the mattresses with his elbows resting on his knees, smoking. He looked as stoned as ever.

Hutch glanced at him, only now taking in the rest of the scenery, noticing that Christian was present too, hovering in the safe distance of the kitchen. Pixie and Topher, though, were missing.

"Who'd have thought Ol´ Snoop was a cop!" McLean continued, shaking his head at Starsky, who couldn't see him, anyway, since he was kneeling with his back to him. "Man."

"I knew something was off about him from the day he set foot in here," Dobbs replied and shoved his foot into Starsky's back, almost sending him down on his face. Hutch could see him bite his lip to keep from making a noise.

Zadie didn't listen. She was still holding the badge, staring down at Starsky. "You're a cop!" she suddenly asked. She actually sounded hurt, Hutch thought surprisedly. As if she felt truly and sincerely betrayed. "All the time," she added, "you were just tricking us? Setting us up?"

Starsky looked up at her, his expression hard. "Yep."

For a moment it looked like Zadie might jump into his face, or at least lose it, yell at him. But she just returned his glare for a moment, then threw his badge at him disgustedly. He didn't move out of the way, let it hit his nose and fall down.

"What d'we do with him?" Zadie asked coldly, turning to Hutch, then Dobbs.

In answer, Brighton lowered the gun more, so that it now rested directly on the back of the curly head. "You gotta ask?" he replied. A sarcastic grin snaked over his features.

The cold fear in Hutch's stomach instantly changed to white hot panic, and it was only Starsky's quick glance that kept him from doing something rash. Instead, he blinked composedly, before speaking. His voice was so calm it surprised himself.

"Um, Brighton?" sounding almost mocking. Like he was talking to a little kid who was preparing to screw up. Like Philip Hunter would sound.

"What?" Dobbs asked, not angrily, but truly puzzled, nervous even. He looked up at Hutch expectantly.

The blond detective only hoped that they couldn't see his heart hammering against his chest. He couldn't believe how convincingly in-character he sounded, while at the same time his thoughts stumbled over each other. He was terrified, but appeared bored.

"I'm sorry to intervene," he said casually, "but do you really want to shoot a police officer right here in the middle of the house?"

Dobbs stared at him then at the gun in his hand. He didn't answer.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Hutch could see Christian tense, his arms wrapped around himself, as he stood at the kitchen table, watching in telltale distress.

McLean waved his hands. "'Ey, Dobbsie, man, he's right. You can't just blow the guy away, he's a cop."

"Exactly," Zadie replied hatefully. She folded her arms in front of her, casting Starsky a hateful glare. "But I gotta say I'm on Hunter's side about not doing it in here, because I will not scrape the bastard's brains from the wall."

Hutch cringed. He could sense his partner's gaze on him, and when their eyes met, Hutch saw that Starsky was scared. Terrified. But it wasn't for him, really. They both knew Hutch wouldn't - couldn't - let Dobbs and the others seriously hurt Starsky. At one point, he'd reach the brink of his endurance and blow his own cover as well. If that happened, they were both most likely lost. Too many uncertainties. Even if Hutch, for example, could get the gun from Dobbs, Topher and Pixie were still out there somewhere. Besides, they had no way of contacting Ethan Gerardy. When it got out that there had been two undercover cops introduced to the group by the same man within a week, it wouldn't be too hard for even Dobbs and Zadie to put one and one together. Blowing both their covers would mean blowing Gerardy's cover as well and leaving him to blindly walk into his sure damnation upon his eventual return.

No, the only way to play this, Hutch figured, was by keeping Starsky out of harm's way and alive, while waiting for Ethan to return and help them out. Glancing at Starsky to let him know about his decision - which his friend had probably anticipated, anyway - he winced inwardly at the sight of the by now-bluish bruise that seemed to be growing steadily on Starsky's temple.

Well... relatively out of harm's way, he thought grimly.

"If you want my opinion, I don't think it'd be wise to have his brains covering anything," he said in the half-joking tone of the know-it-all Philip Hunter was. At Zadie's scowl and the others' questioning glances, he lifted his hands, palms turned up. "Not while they could be useful to us," he added.

Starsky snorted.

Hutch shot him a glare that wasn't entirely played - 'Next time we're in a situation like this, you come up with the bad guy talk, Bogey!' - and asked, "I mean, aren't you wondering why he's even here?"

Zadie's angry face fell.

Dobbs frowned. "Well..." he said, but trailed off.

Encouraged by his accurate prediction of their reactions, Hutch went on. "Where'd you find his badge?"

To everyone's surprise, Christian answered. "Pixie found it in his tent, when she went looking for him." At meeting Hutch's eyes, he quickly bowed his head again, withdrawing himself from the scene.

Hutch gestured slightly - 'See?' He knew he was stepping on thin ice, always relying on his opponents' willingness to believe him and take his words for something wise and important. He couldn't shake the feeling that inside his head, Starsky was teasing him about his acting talents. 'Don't forget to mention me, when they give you the Oscar, yeah, Blintz?'

"If he brought it with him, it means he assumed he'd need it at one point," Hutch pointed out.

He could see they were still following him, especially Dobbs.

"To arrest us?" Brighton asked, sounding strangely incredulous, as if it hadn't yet dawned on him that having a cop among them meant they were actually being observed.

"Probably more like protection against being shot with the rest of us, when his buddies storm the house," Zadie hissed.

It took all Hutch had not to reflexively exchange a look with Starsky at that. "Well," he said, "whatever the reason, fact is, if we shoot him now, he'll be missed, and they know where he is."

"He can't possibly have contacted anyone," Dobbs said. "We're too far away from any street for observation cars, and he couldn't have used our phone."

"We don't know that," Zadie snapped. She was glaring at Starsky again, who, Hutch thought, proved to be uncharacteristically patient.

He hadn't moved an inch since he'd straightened up after having been pushed by Dobbs. His arms were still in the air, hands folded on his neck. And he was trying very hard not to focus on Hutch all the time.

"I say we just ask him," Hutch suggested, glancing down at his partner. "That and why he's here."

A long silence followed, everyone looking at the kneeling detective, until he turned his head slightly to glance up. "You don't expect me to answer to that, do you?" he asked in contrived, casual disbelief.

Hutch held his breath. Too fast, he was moving too fast for Starsky. Coming up with a believable story that would endanger neither Hutch's nor Gerardy's life's probably proved to be a lot harder with a gun was pressed to your head. Not to mention when your head hurt, as Hutch assumed Starsky's was most likely to, if the bruise and blood were any indications.

Yet, as understanding as he was, he couldn't help feeling a twinge of nervous annoyance at his friend's reaction. 'I'm trying to save your ass here, Buddy. The least you could do is play along!'

So when he spoke again, the look he cast his friend was urging. "Actually we do, yes."

Starsky returned the gaze almost apologetically, making his friend regret his harsh tone. His helplessness was palpable, and it suddenly hit Hutch that there weren't that many believable stories to come up with at this point, anyway. Maybe the 'keeping Starsky out of harm's way'-part would turn out to be more difficult than he'd thought.

"I didn't contact anyone," Starsky said clearly.

Hutch could hear him trying to keep the fear out of his voice. He'd known that answer would come, there was no use in lying about that, since the truth was easy to check out.

Hutch nodded, taking his time before he asked further, willing Starsky to come up with something. Anything. "Okay." He paused. "So what're you doing here?"

When Starsky didn't answer fast enough - though Hutch thought he'd seen an idea forming in his eyes - Dobbs cuffed him with the barrel of the gun. This time, a soft noise escaped the detective, but he stubbornly refused to react, just bowed his head a tad.

Hutch could see him squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.

"He asked you something. Snoopy," Dobbs spat.

"Topher," Starsky suddenly said.

Hutch froze, mind racing to figure out whether that was a smart story or not. Whether or not he could work with it. "What?" he asked.

"I'm here because of Topher. We knew Nicolas visited him in jail a few times. That's why we decided to have him be observed. I had no idea I'd land here," Starsky added with a sarcastic little a snort, shooting Dobbs a glare.

It was a good story, Hutch found with relief. In fact it was so good that it even allowed him to play doubtful. "Nicolas isn't very interested in this platoon," he said, feeling Dobbs' eyes on him. Philip Hunter wasn't known to be particularly fond of Darren Nicolas, since Nicholas obviously wanted to keep Camp California a storage unit for hiding his weapons, not a group that would actually participate in the secret war he fighting against the state. Hunter, though, sought the action, publicity.

Just like Dobbs.

Starsky must have understood, because he played along smoothly, hardening his expression, when he looked at Hutch. "We didn't know that," he replied.

There was no reason to doubt that. The next task for Hutch was to point out the use of having a cop prisoner. Or the benefits of not killing a cop. Whatever worked. He was just about to try the first option, when Zadie spoke.

The dangerously low sound of her voice made the hairs on the backs of several necks rise, not just Starsky's. "When did you become so talkative, Snoop?" she asked sarcastically. "Is that really what you cover cops do, when you've been made? Tell the bad guys everything?"

"I'm a coward," Starsky quipped, but Hutch could hear he was nervous. Maybe even as much as he himself was.

"Somehow I doubt that," Zadie said, watching him closely.

"That could be because you have the hots for me, honey," Starsky muttered.

Hutch closed his eyes with an inward sigh. 'Staaarsk.' And of course that remark earned Starsky another blow with the gun from Dobbs. Forceful enough this time to make him double over and crash to the floor.

Hutch flinched.

"Shut the fuck up!" Brighton snapped and kicked the downed man.

Having just started to push himself up, Starsky was knocked down, landing hard on his left hand and thumb. He couldn't stop himself from yelping at that.

Hutch practically had to force himself to stop, as he reflexively took a step forward. 'Scratch relatively,' he thought sarcastically. But then, he'd take 'alive' if he had to. What else could he do?

The pain seemed to have ebbed some, but Starsky didn't try to get up again. He remained were he lay, face down.

Annoyed, Dobbs nudged him with his foot. "Get up, Snoop," he ordered wickedly, obviously frustrated that his victim was no longer providing him with more excuses for his mistreatment.

Starsky didn't move. "Don't call me Snoop," he growled.

Before Dobbs had a chance to do anything, Hutch quickly stepped closer and reached down to drag Starsky up by the the back of his t-shirt. It was a supportive gesture, but the blond managed to make it look demanding and painful. Once he had his partner back on his knees, he shook him slightly for emphasis. His grasp didn't loosen, when he spoke again, but discreetly changed location, so that it now looked like he was roughly grabbing the curly-haired man's neck, when his fingers were actually just resting there, providing comfort in the only possible way.

It suddenly hit him that he hadn't had a reason to interfere, other than to protect his friend from Dobbs. "Well, Cop," he said, stressing the last word in a mocking retort to Starsky's earlier growl. "I must say I'm not totally convinced, either."

"Breaks my heart to hear that," Starsky replied.

Hutch ignored the cocky reply. It didn't fit Hunter to lose his cool at trivial things like that. Yet - for the others, he had just lost his cool. Come to think of it, it must appear strange to them, his sudden outburst. Out of character. And dangerous.

Seeing his chance there, he lowered his voice some more, forced his features to freeze to an emotionless mask. "Not convincing me might get other parts of you broken." He bent down a tad, so that he was speaking into Starsky's ear-level, when he added, "If you get my meaning."

Starsky shot him the briefest side glance, and what Hutch saw there made him tighten his grip on his friend's neck. Still not hurting - never hurting - but comforting. Apologizing.

Hutch knew it had been a futile hope to believe they could get out of this mess as he had previously planned. Zadie and Dobbs were arrogant, snobby, inexperienced and blue-eyed, but they were neither stupid nor naive enough to believe Starsky's story.

For a moment, Hutch had thought it would work, and he knew his friend had too, otherwise he wouldn't have talked so quickly, but they had to realize it wouldn't work. In order to keep Starsky safe, Hutch needed him to be convincingly important. Important enough to be spared, anyway. Until Gerardy returned.

But what would be important about a cop with nothing left to tell?

'God, I hope this won't be too bad, Starsk. I'll try, I promise!'

"So," Hutch said, his forced calmness once more acting like a shield against his nagging distress, "how about we try this telling us why you're here part again? Only this time, without you lying."

He could feel Starsky tense. Showtime. "I wasn't lying."

Unimpressed, Hutch exchanged a glance with Dobbs, then Zadie. "You mean you want us to believe you were sent here to watch a nutcase who's been in and out of jail for years without any cops following him, just because your colleagues caught Darren Nicolas' name on some visitors list?" he asked quietly.

"It's why I'm here," Starsky stubbornly replied. At least he couldn't get caught in any traps now. He had a story to stick to. "It's the truth, I swear."

Dobbs shook his head, determined. "This is getting nowhere." Positioning himself in front of Starsky, he once more pointed the gun directly at his head. "It's over, Pig. One way or another we're going to find out."

Starsky snorted. "That's so clever, Brightass. If you shoot me, you won't find out shit."

Hutch tightened his hold on his partner's neck to warn him, but his hand flinched away, when Dobbs hit Starsky in the face with the butt of the gun. The blow sent the brunet crashing to his side, blood streaming from his nose.

The self-control it took for Hutch to not instantly attack Brighton with a vengeance was immense.

Starsky lay on the floor, dazed, not paying attention to Dobbs, who crouched down, grabbing a handful of curly hair. "You think you're so clever, don't you, Snoop? Well, piece of information, Pal: your sorry ass is mine now, and I swear to God you're gonna tell us exactly what your assignment is and whatever else we want to know. Got that?" With angry force, he shoved Starsky's head back onto the floor, then stood and, as if in afterthought, kicked the downed man's side.

Starsky groaned, his body reflexively curling up against more abuse.

Hutch held his breath. He physically had to swallow back the urge to lunge forward and make it all stop. Check on his friend. He didn't like the way Starsky ducked his head close to his chest, obviously not wanting Hutch to see how his face was scrunched in pain.

From where he sat, unmoving, but fascinated by the real life action taking place in his house, McLean waved a lazy hand at Starsky. He laughed softly. "If I were you, I'd talk, Snoopy-Cop. Dobbsie's pissed."

Hutch cast him an incredulous glance, McLean's tone grimly reminding him of Starsky when he talked to people on the TV screen. Looking back at Brighton, he worriedly took in the truth of McLean's statement, as it was obvious that Brighton was indeed very pissed. He'd hated Starsky from day one - a condition Starsky was partly to blame for - had been teased and bullied by the curly-haired man whenever Starsky had had the chance - and now he had the perfect opportunity for payback.

Not to mention the fact that Starsky, as a cop, was the total embodiment of everything the group hated in the world. In their opinion, he was entirely to blame for every single fellow terrorist who had died in jail or been shot during an arrest or had simply been arrested at all. They had the enemy at their mercy.

The delight was clearly written all over Dobbs' and Zadie's faces. It even dominated the feeling of betrayal and fear of being observed.

The sudden realization hit Hutch with cold force. Gazing down at his partner, who slowly unfolded himself in order to get back on his knees, the right side of his face bloody and battered, he felt the fear mounting. He could only hope Starsky had no broken ribs after this. Brighton could easily beat Starsky to death right there, and Hutch knew it. What he doubted, though, was that Brighton knew it. He hadn't proven to be very immersed in reality in the past, and Hutch wondered whether he realized how much damage could be done to a person's body without putting bullet holes into it.

So the fact remained that Starsky's only chance at the moment was to be in the hands of someone who did know all that. Who cared.

Hutch closed his eyes ever so briefly, drawing in a quiet, bracing breath. He was pretty sure this was the toughest decision he'd ever had to make, as this day decidedly turned into one of the darkest of his life.

Dobbs was just stepping forward again to grab Starsky, who was still struggling to get back up, when Hutch sternly stopped him by catching his arm, before he could touch Starsky. Surprised, Brighton looked at him, but indeed halted.

Hutch returned the questioning expression coolly.

The obvious respect Dobbs had for Philip Hunter was their biggest ace, and Hutch knew that - to Brighton - his boiling anger looked like cold rationality. He was still willing to listen to Hunter, for some reason trusting him with this matter as much as with everything else before.

Keeping his hand clamped around Dobbs' arm, Hutch quietly pointed out, "He can't tell us anything if he's unconscious."

Brighton pursed his lips, gazing down at his victim. The logic in that seemed to make sense to him.

"And we'd better keep him alive too," Hutch continued. "At least as long as we don't know where he's coming from."

"I agree," Zadie suddenly said. She'd kept her distance, while Brighton had lashed out at Starsky, watching with what Hutch would've described as a cliché of the coldness of a betrayed female. As if Starsky deserved getting the stuffing kicked out of him, just for tricking her, alone. Once more, she reminded Hutch of similar women he'd met during his college days, who had also had the heart and pride of an ice queen.

"Might come in handy at one point too, having a cop to show them," she added.

Hutch shuddered. If she knew how handy it was already.

"Okay." Brighton shrugged, accepting their arguments, and folded his arms in front of his chest. He stepped away from Starsky.

The way the gun dangled from his fingers made Hutch increasingly nervous. His partner's teasing about Dobbs' lack of shooting practice had crept into his mind.

"But how do we get him to talk?" Dobbs asked.

For a split second, Hutch caught Starsky's gaze.

The regretful fear and pain he saw reflected there was meant entirely for him. 'It's okay, Hutch. Do what you have to do to get us outta this mess alive. It's okay. Me and thee, Partner.'

But still Hutch had to speak past a growing, choking lump in his throat. "I think I have an idea."

Dobbs and Zadie didn't answer, their silence an offer to go ahead.

"I..." Feeling his stress stutter kicking in, Hutch quickly hushed himself and cleared his throat. He could sense Starsky looking at him reassuringly, concerned. "I need him at the table," he finished the sentence, impressed himself by the matter-of-fact tone he managed. As if he was preparing to arrange the setting for a photograph. Not to torture his best friend.

Hiding the wince that rushed over his features by quickly bending down to drag Starsky to his feet, he silently chided himself. 'Thinking the t-word is not helping, Hutchinson. Focus on staying in character, come on. Starsky's relying on you.'

As he held on to Starsky's arm and the back of his neck, while walking him into the kitchen - making it convincingly appear as if he was half dragging, half pushing him - he could feel his friend's hand ever so briefly close over his, squeezing hard.

"'Msorry," Hutch whispered so softly it was more mouthed than actually spoken. But still Starsky heard it. Hutch could feel him lean slightly into him, pressing against his side.

When they arrived at the kitchen table, Christian practically jumped away, hurrying into the 'lobby' to once more position himself at the far end of the scene's setting. He had his arms securely wrapped around himself, as if he were cold, and Hutch thought he saw him cast Zadie a pleading look. She didn't see it. Along with Dobbs and McLean, she walked into the kitchen, where they surrounded the table.

Hutch had pushed Starsky into a chair, holding onto his hands, while he himself sat down across from him.

Their eyes locked.

"Somebody hold him down," Hutch ordered after taking a moment to brace himself. He let go of Starsky's left hand, which was instantly grabbed by Dobbs as he dragged it behind the chair with enough force to make Starsky flinch with the pain.

Hutch's gaze snapped up at Brighton, but he fortunately stopped himself from making any sharp comments. Instead, he focused on his partner again. He couldn't remember ever having felt so utterly miserable. Beyond despair. What he was about to do was unthinkable.

The sympathy he read in his friend's eyes came as little comfort. They both knew the pain Starsky would have to endure would be nothing in comparison to Hutch's.

How he managed to keep up his act so convincingly was beyond Hutch. The important thing was that he did it, making a show of pinning Starsky's right hand to the table at the wrist, while seemingly playfully picking up each finger once to stretch it straight out. When he was done, he saw Starsky desperately trying to keep from clawing his fingertips onto the wooden surface in frightened anticipation of what was about to come.

"I'll ask you one more time," Hutch said calmly as he tightened his grip around Starsky's index finger, looking into midnight-blue eyes. "What is your task here?"

Starsky swallowed dryly. "I told you," he answered. "I'm observing Topher Martin."

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Starsky had flinched when Dobbs jerked his left arm upwards behind his back, but had forced himself to keep from crying out. He had planned to at least try not to scream during the whole procedure, for Hutch's sake, yet that promise crumbled to dust when his index finger snapped under Hutch's quick, jerking move.

Starsky understood why Hutch had chosen that kind of torture; it looked very convincing, but wouldn't do too much harm, contrary to a beating. The damage was controllable, and the bones would heal nicely, afterwards, when you made sure they were broken with clean snaps.

What Starsky had suppressed until now, though, was that the reason it looked so very convincing was that it did hurt like hell.

Inwardly kicking himself for having allowed the strangled yelp to escape, he quickly bit his lip, swallowing an agonized whimper at the scalding hot pain that ran freely through his whole hand. His head was hanging so low his forehead nearly touched the table; he would not look into Hutch's eyes while his features were contorted in pain. Somewhere behind the screeching agony he registered a slight pressure just above his wrist, where Hutch held onto his hand. His heart bled for his friend, and he finally managed to will the pain to ebb away some. Drawing in a deep breath through his nose, he lifted his head, seemingly stubbornly, but with eyes filled with sympathy, comfort. Absolution.

Hutch thought his heart had stopped beating - he couldn't seem to feel anything. At the same time, though, he felt everything: agitation, fright. Guilt.

The necessary logic that had marked his plan seemed to fade, now that he was watching his best friend desperately struggle to recompose himself.

What was he doing here, for crying out loud! Why didn't he just get up like he should, jerk Dobbs away from his partner, grab Starsky and run like hell!

One look into Starsky's eyes reminded him of the whys - 'It's the only way, partner. I understand. Please believe me. I do!' - but inside his head it felt as if another thought was creeping up at this comforting answer, planning to overshadow it: he'd just caused Starsky a hell of a lot of pain. On purpose.

The sight of Starsky clenching his jaws tightly against pressing moans tore Hutch back into reality. His friend was holding out for him. He should do the same.

Quickly, so as to not allow himself a moment of doubt, he grasped Starsky's middle finger next.

Out of pure reflex, the brunet tried to jerk his hand away, so that Hutch had to tighten his grip. When he accidentally brushed against the constantly-swelling index finger, they both flinched.

"Nine more to go," Hutch said and lifted his brows questioningly.

Starsky arched his lips in a humorless smile. It didn't last a second. "I'm impressed. Smarty Smurf can count."

Hutch shrugged. "Pity." Before he had any time to think, he snapped the second bone. No one but Starsky saw him squeeze his eyes shut.

This time, Starsky did manage to keep from screaming, having anticipated the pain, but it took his breath away when he tried to swallow it back. He gasped pitifully, then lowered his head again, as he gulped in air.

Hutch could feel him tug at his hand, mere instinct urging him to struggle.

"That's eight."

To Hutch's left, McLean gave a low whistle. He was leaning against the wall, watching with his arms folded. "Hunter, I just wanna say I'm glad I'm on your side, man." He shook his head.

Next to him, Zadie lit up a cigarette. Brighton clearly secured Starsky to the chair with more force than necessary.

As if McLean's comment had marked a pause meant for the rest of them to intervene, Dobbs suddenly grabbed a handful of the tousled dark curls and jerked Starsky's head backwards.

Hutch winced. From the new angle, he could see where the blood had run down into Starsky's collar from his nose.

"Not looking so tough now, our hero," Dobbs hissed. He gave the head he held an angry shake. "Why don't you just tell us what we wanna know, Snoop, huh? We might even let you go then." He arched his brows mockingly.

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Save that for the judges, Brighton," he muttered and paused, clearly having to swallow back bile. "And for fuck's sake, stop calling me Snoop, will ya!"

Furious, Brighton released Starsky's head with an angry shove.

Starsky mumbled something unintelligible into the crook of his elbow, where he rested his forehead, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Sweat was glistening on his face by now, mingling with drying blood. When he lifted his head again, there were bright red spots on his bare arm.

Hutch suppressed a shudder. He glanced at his own hand, which was hovering over Starsky's bruised, swollen one. 'God, what a mess we got ourselves into, Gordo!' It was time to end this for now. He needed a break.

"You know - Cop," he said, once more stressing the word ironically, and almost playfully tugged at Starsky's pinky. "This could go on forever. There's your left hand, and the hands themselves, toes, arms... You get the picture?" he asked, lowering his head to look into Starsky's eyes.

His partner understood. Looking for all the world like he was seriously contemplating whether or not he wanted to live through the described ordeal, he let his gaze wander off nervously, then flicker back to Hutch.

When he spoke again, his voice was fear-filled. Small, but high-pitched with anxiety. "What d'you want from me, that I lie to you! I can't tell you more than the truth!"

Hutch hit his free hand down on the table, hard, next to Starsky's hand, causing a violent flinch. "No more lies!" he ordered sharply, waving his index finger warningly.

It was so familiar a gesture that Starsky winced.

Noticing, Hutch instantly lowered his hand. "I won't let you go on wasting my time here, 'Snoop'," he added with a feigned, hateful emphasis. "What is so important to hide from us, that you're willing to be crippled over telling! What is your fucking assignment!" His voice had risen to a full yell, fierce, sky blue eyes locking with Starsky's.

'Just play along, Buddy, please. I promise I'll make it quick, but I need a break. Please.'

He thought he could see his friend sigh, as if resigning.

Yet, Starsky did play along. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Do we use language like that 'round here?" Upon catching Hutch's urging look - it wasn't enough for Philip Hunter to blow up - he added, "And don't talk to me about wasting anyone's time, Smartass. You're nothing but a pathetic, unemployed drop-"

That was good enough. With one well-placed punch, Hutch sent Starsky flying from the chair, out of the startled Brighton Dobbs' grasp, and onto the floor.

Starsky lay where he landed, out cold.

Hutch stood half-leaning over the table, staring after the brunet, gently shaking his aching hand. When he brought his other one around it, he suddenly froze, glancing down at it disgustedly.

Dobbs frowned at him, as he stepped over to Starsky and nudged the unmoving detective with his foot. "What was that about him being useless when he´ s unconscious!" he snapped.

"I figured his uselessness is not a matter of his condition," Hutch muttered sarcastically.

Dobbs rolled his eyes. "Hunter! Just don't let him get to you like that! We need him awake!"

Hutch tried his best to keep the surprise at seeing how well his plan had worked from showing in his face. He snorted. "You're one to talk."

"Guys," Zadie cut in calmingly, pushing herself away from the wall next to McLean, who was once more slowly shaking his head at the scenery. She crossed the short distance to where Starsky lay on his side, face down, and crouched down next to him.

Hutch flinched involuntarily. Watching her stroke back wayward curls from Starsky's forehead was decidedly creeping him out. His mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation of why she should get away from there right now and leave 'Snoop' the hell alone!

"No need to fight over a piece of youknowwhat." She smiled at Hutch playfully and was disappointed, when he didn't react to her gentle teasing. "Besides," she continued, taking a long draw from her cigarette, "I think I know what he's hiding."

Hutch only noticed that he had been holding his breath when his chest started to hurt. He nervously rubbed his chin. "Oh, yeah?"

Her hand remaining entangled in Starsky's hair, Zadie looked up at him. "Uh-huh." She smiled wryly. "It's not that hard to figure out, but I guess you were too busy." As if for emphasis, she lightly patted Starsky's cheek.

He moaned quietly and turned his face away from her.

'Oh, great,' Hutch thought grimly. 'Go ahead, Lady, wake him up. Don't let the fact I just crossed Hell to finally knock him out stop you.'

Zadie smiled at Starsky, her fingers slightly tightening in his hair, as she took the last lungful from her cigarette stub. "Snoopy," she sing-songed, shaking his head. "Wakey, wakey."

Starsky moaned some more, ducking his head in a futile attempt to free himself from her grip. His eyes remained closed, but Hutch could see he was starting to come around.

'There goes my break,' the blond nervously joked to himself. He couldn't help acknowledging an increasing twinge of panic setting in, while he watched Zadie pick up Starsky's mangled hand, shake her head in disgust and let it fall back down.

Starsky's forehead wrinkled in a wince.

Hutch was losing ground, and he knew it. Whatever Zadie thought she'd figured out, it wasn't acting in Hutch's favor, taking the control out of his hands again.

He nearly jumped forward when Zadie, impatient at Starsky's slow process of waking up, finally shoved her burning cigarette butt down on the side of his neck.

Starsky yelped. His eyes popped wide open. Still dazed and only semi-conscious, he frantically tried to scramble away from this new source of pain, but Zadie held him back, applying even more pressure on the butt, until she was convinced that he was fully awake.

Hutch felt like he was about to get sick. He swallowed dryly, feeling his arm press closer against his chest as if by its own will. As if it wanted to restrain him from interfering.

Suddenly sensing a glance upon him, he turned slightly and caught Christian Gruder quickly looking away.

A swift movement next to him drew Hutch's attention away from the pale young man and to Dobbs, who'd left his side to come to a halt next to Starsky, pointing the gun at him with emphasis, as if he feared the confused, injured detective could break free from Zadie's hold and hurt her.

Hutch could tell his friend was far from doing that.

Focusing on Hutch, visibly puzzled at why he was just standing there, Starsky jerked his head away from Zadie's touch.

She let go of him and rose to her feet next to Dobbs, watching her victim drag himself up to a sitting position against a wall, his good hand holding the burn on his neck.

At some point, the frown of confusion on his face evened out. His gaze wandered over to cast a hateful glare on Zadie.

"That was not necessary," he told her.

Hutch bowed his gaze. He couldn't help thinking he'd seen a quick side-glance directed at him. Noticing that his hands were shaking, he reached behind himself for the kitchen table and leaned against it, fingers clamped tightly around the wooden surface.

Zadie grinned, as if Starsky had complimented her. She was obviously having the time of her life, enjoying her superior cleverness. "I know what you're here for, Sn... Cop," she stated. Audible excitement betrayed her cold tone.

Starsky closed his eyes, slightly squeezing them shut against the pain, and sighed. "Enlighten me. Please."

"It's because of the Frisco guys."

'Funny,' some disconnected part of Hutch's mind thought, 'how something said in such a casual tone can hit the air like a bomb.' He froze, watched Starsky do the same.

Their eyes met, and Hutch found it hard to tell whose voice it was that he heard mutter 'uh-oh' inside his head - his or his partner's.

Anyway, 'uh-oh' covered this latest change in the situation perfectly, as Dobbs' immediate reaction proved. His gaze flew to Zadie, the gun in his hand twitching with the movement.

Hutch saw Starsky flinch, hard.

"That's right!" Dobbs exclaimed, unaware of the fact he'd just almost pulled the trigger by accident. "Why didn't we think of that!" He turned to Hutch with mock accusation. "It was obvious, all along! Just think about it, how long's he been here, two weeks?"

"After the Frisco arrests," Zadie pointed out, savoring her moment of brilliance. "Shortly after," she added with emphasis.

Starsky stared up at them, dumbfounded, then at Hutch, whose strained expression didn't appear very comforting. Catching the pleas in his partner's frightened eyes, Hutch discreetly lifted his fingers off the table's edge in a tiny, calming gesture.

"Um," he started, waiting for Dobbs and Zadie to turn to him, "I-I don't get it." He cleared his throat, then frowned, lifting his chin a bit, to force an unconvinced expression on his face and to make up for his stress stutter. He folded his arms in front of his chest. "Even if he was involved in the arrests, how could he have known about y... us?"

The moment he'd said it, he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut against both the realization of his own stupidity and Starsky's frustrated glare. He could all but hear his friend's reply. 'Right. Good question, Hutch. So what could possibly be the answer to that? Let's see... oh, hey, maybe there's ANOTHER leak. Like, say, YOU, idiot!'

Dobbs and Zadie looked at Starsky again, both frowning at this new twist in their theory. Hutch used the opportunity for a quick, desperate ghost of an apologetic grimace. He thought he saw Starsky roll his eyes at him, but it could've been just his imagination, since he that was exactly what his partner wanted to do, right now.

"Okay..." Starsky started with a sigh, having obviously decided that playing along was the only chance they had right now.

He needn't have worried, though. Zadie and Dobbs had found a truth they liked, and they weren't going to give it up just because logic might get in their way. "Our guys must've told the cops about us," Zadie explained to Hutch. A shadow crossed her features when she turned to Starsky again, nudging one outstretched foot with hers. "What'd you do to them to make them talk, Pig, huh? What do the police use these days to get information? Torture? Or threaten to hand them over to God knows who?"

Hutch saw the first clear signs of Starsky getting annoyed - his gaze would wander off as if insulted, so that he all in all appeared to just not be listening anymore - but at least he proved to be smarter than Hutch this time, wisely keeping himself from pointing out that Zadie, Dobbs and the rest themselves hadn't heard of any other group but theirs before Gerardy had broken the news to them the other day. Logically, the Frisco members probably didn't know about them, either, and couldn't have told the cops where to find them.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Honey," Starsky replied sarcastically, casting Zadie a disparaging look, "but we don't do torturing. Don't need to with you folks, anyway." He smiled wickedly, leaving them to interpret the remark however they wanted.

"Shut up!" Dobbs barked angrily, but the words were swallowed by a loud bang. He had let his trembling fingers twitch once too often.

Hutch had no doubt he'd flinched three times as hard as Starsky when the shot split the air. He was next to Dobbs in a blink's time, but froze before he could snatch the gun away from him, gaze fixed on Starsky, who hadn't moved an inch, but was shaking, staring at a bullet hole in the wall, mere inches away from him. Carefully, as if to not enrage the unstable Dobbs again, he let his eyes wander up to the small group hovering above him.

"O-okay," he croaked and cleared his throat. "Wh-whatever you wanna know. Just... someone get the gun away from him, please?"

No one answered him, but Hutch and Zadie simultaneously reached for the gun without noticing the other one doing it. Hutch's hand met empty air, and only when he tore his eyes away from his partner - making sure there really was no scratch on Starsky, no blood visible - did he see that now it was the girl holding Starsky at gunpoint. She seemed to have overcome her shock pretty fast and was slowly stepping backwards, until she could sit down on the table.

"Well," she said contentedly and waved the gun slightly. "Go ahead, Snoop."

"Man," Norton McLean suddenly said from behind the table.

Hutch and Dobbs jumped, whirling around. They had completely forgotten about McLean.

"You're one lousy shot, Dobbsie." McLean whistled lowly. "My blind great-grandmother could do better'n th-"

"I didn't mean to hit him!" Dobbs exclaimed irritatedly. He blushed. "I, uh... I just wanted to scare him into talking." He nodded convincingly.

Zadie snorted, earning a scowl, that she responded to by quickly lifting her brows innocently. "Worked, too," she agreed condescendingly.

She grinned at Hutch, who could only manage a quivery smile. He very carefully let go of a deep breath, trying his best to not fall out of character, as every one of his nerves screamed at him to punch Brighton Dobbs right there and then. "Yeah," he replied, his voice a little high-pitched. "Worked just fine." As if in good-humored relief, he patted Dobbs' back, but made sure it was hard enough to hurt.

Dobbs flinched, discreetly, and quickly stepped away to lean against the table next to Zadie. Hutch remained where he was. He couldn't stop his gaze from wandering off to stare at the hole in the wall every few seconds, never failing to realize once more how frighteningly close to Starsky's head it was.

"Or didn't it?" Zadie asked, and Hutch turned to see her focusing on Starsky again. He frowned, puzzled. Christian Gruder was leaning against the table too, now, as if he'd just popped into the scenery out of nowhere. But then, Hutch figured, he'd probably been scared to death by the gunshot and was seeking comfort from Zadie's presence. He was incredibly pale and shook almost as badly as Hutch, or Starsky.

"What?" Starsky asked. He'd calmed down with a speed that his still-trembling friend found very impressive, the shook-up, startled irony having been displaced by the same pissed-off expression he'd worn before the shot. "Sorry, I must've dozed off. What were we-"

"I asked," Zadie interrupted him, lifting the gun for emphasis, "if you're scared enough to talk now." With visible satisfaction, she watched Starsky follow her hand's every move. Hutch had no doubt his partner just remembered all the lessons in shooting he'd given her.

"Seems to me there's not much to talk about," Starsky replied. His eyes never leaving the gun, he tried to sit up straighter, but flinched violently when he tried to use his left hand to push himself up.

Hutch only hoped that the pain wasn't as bad as the hot wave of guilt that washed through him. He quickly bowed his head to hide his own flinch.

"Yeah, well," Zadie sighed disappointedly, "you never were too bright, were ya, Snoop?"

"Don't call me Snoop."

Zadie ignored the remark. "Look, it's really simple. We know you're here to spy on us, find out about our plans and actions... the basic stuff. And we know that there's no way you could've contacted anyone since you've been here. So, naturally, there's no date set for you to meet with any backup. Now, my guess is that you planned on calling in for the first time tomorrow, when you were in town, watching Teddy's School."

Starsky nodded in mock gravity. "Your intelligence is humbling, lady."

Hutch rolled his eyes.

Zadie, though, just grinned. She was too far enmeshed in her power-high to be bothered by the detective's flippant remarks. "Thank you." She slightly bowed her head. "So - what else do we know? You knew we'd find out about Frisco sooner or later. And you probably anticipated us doing something about it, which, basically, means you were just waiting for us to dig our own grave. Right?"

Starsky frowned. "I'm afraid you lost me."

"Aw," Zadie muttered in fake sympathy. "Poor Snoop." She cast Hutch a quick glance. "Shouldn't have hit him so hart." She turned away again, before she could catch his grimace. "What I mean is, you were counting on us to come up with something like Dobbs' plan all the time, so that you and your buddies could bust us with our hands in the cookie jar."

"On the ouzies," Starsky corrected sarcastically. "Yep."

"Yeah." Zadie paused. "And that is why the cops kept it a secret where they brought our fellow members. Isn't it?"

Starsky just stared at her. "What?"

"It's easy," Zadie said. "You wanted us out in the open without running the risk of us, even by accident, succeeding in freeing our people."

"Um..." Hutch cut in, truly puzzled. "Excuse me, but does that make any sense? If they wanted to get us, why didn't they just let us know exactly where our people are, since then they'd know for sure where to catch us?"

"Good point," Starsky nodded.

"Thanks," Hutch said.

"You're welcome."

"Aw, Hunter, I'm disappointed," Zadie said. "What would they need a cover cop for if that was the case?" She paused, but no one knew an answer.

Hutch glanced down at his friend, catching a 'good point, too'- look on Starsky's face. He inwardly rolled his eyes. 'Very funny, Gordo.'

"See?" Zadie finally continued with a small gesture. "They're not stupid. Fascist, inhumane and corrupt..." She smiled at Starsky. "... but not stupid."

"And I got nothing nice to say to you," the detective mumbled.

"They know there's always the risk of other groups finding out where they're holding the Frisco section. So they keep it a secret and send their men out to inform them about their reactions. Clever. You know, I think we're probably not the only ones. If it had worked, they could've infiltrated other groups as well."

Starsky snorted a nervous laugh. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" he exclaimed.

"Okay," Dobbs said challengingly. "So why are you here?"

"To drag your sorry asses back to your mommies, where they belong!" Starsky snapped. "D'you really think the police give a damn about a bunch of losers! C'mon, give reality a chance, kids!" He cringed slightly; yelling obviously wasn't doing his headache any good. When there was no reaction from the others, though, he drew in a deep breath and lowered his voice. "I admit we heard about you from the guys we arrested in San Fran. And, yes, I've been sent to you to check you out. See what you're up to. And, yes again, eventually, I would have suggested busting you for illegal possession of arms. But at no point had I anticipated you trying such a completely insane, idiotic thing like you're planning with that school. No one WOULD think you guys are actually up to that, because it's straight-out dumb! If they'd told me to come here and wait for you to come up with THAT, I'd have refused to take the job, because I wouldn't have thought anyone with half a brain stupid enough for it. You know, if anything, you surprised me," he concluded with a teacher-like, disparaging glance. "Kids."

Hutch held his breath, as he stared down at his enraged friend, whose eyes slowly wandered over to him, a very tiny, very quick twitching of one eye visible only for Hutch. Once more, the blond thought he could actually hear what his partner was thinking. 'Oops. Did I just... blow my value as a hostage?'

Hutch bit his lip. His mind raced. "Nice speech," he suddenly heard himself say, his tone as Hunter-like as it hadn't been for a long time. "Did you have to learn that by heart?"

He knew from the look his friend shot him, that Starsky understood what he was doing. The curly-haired detective opened his mouth to reply something, but Hutch cut him off. "No more shit. You know where our people are, and you're gonna tell us. One way or another. What's it gonna be?"

Starsky felt his features strain slightly, as he kept on staring up at Hutch. His inner cop, of course, knew that Hutch had just saved him - them - again, that it was necessary to have the enemy believe he was of any use alive, yet... He discreetly twitched one broken finger, cringing at the pain slicing through his whole hand.

... yet, being of use as a hostage holding information usually included the bad guys trying to tear said information away from you. Forcefully, if necessary.

Now, Starsky didn't know anything about any hiding places the SFPD would hold some terrorists, and, for his own sake, he shouldn't lie and say some random street, either. So by saving him, Hutch had trapped him. Meeting the blond's calming gaze comforted him some, though.

And what choice did they have, anyway?

"I don't know anything about your people," he said. "That's the truth."

Hutch folded his arms in front of him and stepped forward, so that he was standing with his back to Dobbs and Zadie. While his voice was still cold, demanding, he could at least soften his gaze, as he kept eye contact with his friend. "I don't believe you."

"Just look at my badge," Starsky exclaimed. "I'm not even from San Fran. I was just asked to help out. I don't know where they could be, I swear!"

"I don't believe you," Hutch repeated, dangerously hushed.

About to reply something, Starsky suddenly hesitated, his eyes snapping up to lock firmly with his friend's. 'Aw, no. You're not gonna knock me out again, are ya?'

Sensing his friend's worry, Hutch shook his head no with a tiny movement, closing his eyes briefly.

Yet, before he could say some more, Zadie suddenly appeared next to him, having jumped off the table. She still held the gun, but loosely now. She looked down at Starsky, then up at Hutch. "I don't believe him, either. He knows. But..."

At her nervous hesitation, Hutch frowned, puzzled. "But what?"

"But..." She sighed. "No offense, Hunter, but your method didn't work the first time. We can't afford to waste all day here, right? So how about you let me give it a try, hmm?" She smiled, patted Hutch's back and folded her arms before her chest, once more studying the man on the floor. "I think I know how to get him tell the truth." She waggled her brows.

Starsky shuddered, his gaze almost involuntarily settling on Hutch.

"And what'd that be?" Hutch asked. His 'just interested' tone of voice couldn't fool Starsky, though. It wasn't for the first time that the darker part of the duo found himself actually grateful that he wasn't in Hutch's place.

Zadie's grin widened, as if she'd just been waiting for that question. "Be right back," she said excitedly and turned for the stairs. Christian didn't miss a beat in following her, never turning to look back, like a scared puppy.

Dobbs and Hutch exchanged a puzzled look.

"Zade? What... ?" Dobbs called. Turning for the stairs as well, he looked at Hutch, pointing at Starsky. "You keep an eye on him, okay? Hey, Zadie!"

And off he went too, the stomping sounds of his footsteps upstairs mingling with his continuous calls for Zadie, until silence settled.

Hutch's gaze flew down to Starsky, then over to McLean, who, as if on cue, pushed himself off of the wall he'd been leaning against. "Be right back," he repeated Zadie's words lazily, strolling in the direction of his room. "Care for a smoke, too?"

"Ah... n-no," Hutch replied. "Thanks."

McLean shrugged. "Whatever." His door fell shut.

Hutch's eyes found Starsky's. They were alone.

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Hutch only needed a split second to adjust to the twist their situation had taken, staring at the corner that hid McLean's door in disbelief, then he practically fell into a crouch next to his partner.

"Okay, let's move. You can walk, right?" Hastily, he grabbed Starsky's shoulder and arm, accidentally brushing against broken fingers.

Starsky flinched.

"Sorry," Hutch hissed, sounding like he felt the pain himself. "Sorry. Hey," he added with a nervous chuckle, "how's your thumb?"

Starsky didn't answer. He had followed Hutch up to his feet, but planted them now, frowning at the blond, who was trying to drag him towards the door. "Hey, hey, hey, wait!" he whispered and grabbed the front of Hutch's shirt with his good hand to stop his partner. "What're you doing?"

"Getting us outta here," Hutch replied matter-of-factly. He didn't look at his resisting friend, but checked McLean's continuous absence with a quick glance over his shoulder. Thinking Starsky's reluctance to walk was due to pain or weakness, he readjusted his grip to be able to take over more of his weight, but only succeeded in putting unbearable pressure on bruised ribs.

Starsky gasped and jerked away. He stumbled and would have fallen, if Hutch hadn't - ever so gently now - reached out to steady him once more.

"Oh... sorry," Hutch whispered, biting his lower lip as he watched Starsky squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. "You okay?"

Starsky didn't bother answering. With a small, slightly hitched sound he swallowed against the pressing pain. "We can't just leave, Hutch. Lemme down."

"Wha... !" Hutch started to snap, but hushed himself, shooting a panicky glance down the hallway that, to his relief, revealed none of the group members on their return. When he spoke to Starsky again, his voice was urgent. "Listen, I'm sorry my plan didn't work out all that grea-"

"There was a plan?" Starsky interrupted him dryly.

Hutch just rolled his eyes, the guilt that shone visibly in them betraying his annoyed tone. "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry. But we have to move now, before-"

"What about Ethan?" Starsky asked. "If we leave now, even Dobbs will be able to figure out who's the leak. We don't know when Ethan will come back, could be an hour after our departure. Then what?"

"Screw Ethan!" Hutch replied sharply. "It's not our fault he never leaves a contact number. Besides, if it wasn't for his stupid Frisco thriller story, Zadie wouldn't be up there looking for God knows wha-"

"Hutch," Starsky's calm voice cut the angry blond off. "We can't just let him run straight into the fire. They'll kill him."

He was right, and Hutch knew it. Hell, he was listening to his own previous thoughts. But then, certain developments, for him, had put decided emphasis on the word 'previous'. He opened his mouth to argue some more, but Starsky didn't let him.

"And what about Topher. Huh? We pull the plug now, the bust is gone. They'll run. You and I both know they won't leave him behind. He needs help, not-"

"You need help," Hutch cut him off desperately, bending his head to lock begging eyes with his friend's. "It's not Topher they want to beat the shit out of, y'know!"

A lopsided grin crossed Starsky's lips. He lightly patted Hutch's chest with his good hand. "Don't worry. I'll live."

Hutch shook his head. It was an almost reflexive gesture - he knew he was losing this argument. "Starsk..." he pleaded. "You can't even tell them anything if..." He trailed off. "You've got nothing to tell."

"That's why I'll live," Starsky remarked wisely, and before Hutch had the chance to speak again he added, "Look, it's my decision, and I say we're staying."

Hutch pressed his lips together, his eyes never leaving Starsky. He didn't say a word.

"Think about it, Hutch. If it was yours - would we leave then?"

A door was slammed shut upstairs. Hutch closed his eyes. "Whatever they're gonna..." he whispered, but trailed off.

Footsteps could be heard again in the upper hallway. Voices, not yet intelligible.

Hutch craned his head back, staring hatefully at the ceiling, like the captain of a sinking ship, awaiting the masses of water that would shatter the walls at any second. He let go of a shaky breath, his eyes finding Starsky's again. "I won't be able to help you," he finished his sentence.

Starsky smiled wryly, but Hutch could see the fear starting to creep into his eyes.

"Just don't go too far, huh?" With a last tightening of his fingers around the material of Hutch's shirt, Starsky broke the contact, letting himself sink to the floor again, back against the wall. "And don't let me fool ya."

"Sure thing, Camille," Hutch muttered.

There was no time left for him to catch Starsky's reaction, though, as the sounds of excited steps practically flying down the stairs sent him whirling around, just in time to face Zadie and Dobbs approaching the kitchen. Their eyes were shiny bright with delightful anticipation, they both waggled their brows at him in unison.

Christian was missing.

"Where's McLean?" Zadie asked. Now that she'd stepped closer, Hutch could see a small, longish item in her right hand. He frowned. At first sight it could be a gun, or rather a revolver, not unlike Hutch's, but it didn't carry any bullets, and its barrel was closed up front, flat.

"In his roo..." Hutch started to answer, trailing off, when Zadie came to a halt close enough for him to at last clearly see what she'd brought with her. Instantly, his blood ran cold. "...m. Uh, is that what I think it is?" He lifted one brow at the thing.

"It's called a taser," Dobbs explained helpfully. "Ethan had a box of them stashed here for a few days some time ago, before he sold them in Mexico."

"And he, uh, forgot one," Zadie added with a wink.

Hutch nodded slowly. "I see." And actually he saw more than just the truth behind her casual lie. For example, he'd seen Starsky tense at the word "taser." Secretly, he took a small step back, until his foot ever so lightly touched one outstretched one on the floor.

'I should've just picked him up and taken off, dammit! Taser! Great. Juuust great. Who said it was HIS decision, anyway!'

"I doubt it looks unfamiliar to our friend here," Zadie continued, looking down at Starsky, as she waved the taser. "Or does it?" Turning her head at Hutch again, she explained, "They use those in jail. A lot," she added coldly, focusing on Starsky once more.

"And how would I know?" he asked, a slight, nervous, high-pitch tone lingering in his voice that wasn't lost on Hutch. "Contrary to what you might think, Honey, I don't stay there once I've disposed of the scum."

Before Hutch even had the chance to suppress an unnerved sigh at this latest display of reckless stupidity from his partner, Zadie was down in a crouch next to Starsky, furiously grabbing the collar of his shirt, pressing the barrel of the taser against his neck, directly on the cigarette burn.

"You bastard! Those SCUM were my friends!" Starsky clenched his jaw at the pressure on his sensitive flesh, a gasp caught in his throat. His eyes wandered to their corners to cast Zadie a cold glance. "If you plan on using that, you might wanna let go of me first," he advised, his voice scratchy, low, yet carrying hatred over telltale fear.

A moment of tension went by - Hutch held his breath - then Zadie drew back the taser. She looked at it inspectingly, then at Starsky, who'd allowed himself to let go of a tiny sigh, but froze once more, when her grip tightened on his shirt.

"Seems you DO know about it, after all," she observed and with a smile stood up again. Never taking her eyes off of him, she walked around his body, slowly, yet determinedly, like a cat pacing in front of a cornered mouse.

Starsky's gaze followed her, but he wasn't fast enough. Her foot came down hard on the already-injured lying limply on the floor beside him.

Hutch flinched, his eyes closing as if of their own will, while his partner's strangled yelp echoed in his ears. When he looked again, Starsky had curled up on his side, cradling his hand and ducking his head to his chest, unsuccessfully trying to hide his face. Probably from his partner's view, Hutch thought in dismay. He had stepped back involuntarily, so that he now stood behind Dobbs, unseen by the other two and therefore able to cast an utterly sympathetic, pain-filled gaze on Starsky.

Only when their eyes met, ever-so-briefly, and he caught the ghost of a reassuring look in the other one's watery eyes, did Hutch notice that he had unconsciously folded his arms over his chest, practically hugging himself. Tightly. Quickly, he unfolded them, once more holding on to the kitchen table behind him, leaning against it. He was actually grateful for the support; his legs felt weak, as if he'd just been startled really badly, even though he had seen Zadie's move coming.

The hand he lifted to run over his features was trembling. 'C'MON, get a grip!' he ordered himself. But then, he couldn't remember a situation that had been as hard to play as this. Not that he had never before seen his friend hurt - worse even - but never before had he been so completely unable to help him, to provide any kind of comfort. Not to mention being part of it.

"Did he say anything useful while we were gone? Hunter?"

At Zadie addressing him, her voice quivery with rage, he snapped back into his role quickly. "Ah... no." He shook his head. "Didn't say a word."

"Good," she stated coldly, shooting Starsky a hateful glare. "Let's see how long it stays that way."

Hutch shuddered. He had no idea why Zadie so obviously hated cops, but it sure was scaring him for his friend's sake. Plus, he couldn't help thinking that maybe he, himself, had underestimated Zadie before. To him she had always seemed rather passively- aggressive - all talk and organization; not like the type who would kill with her own hands. But, watching her clench her jaw when she glared at the downed detective's battered form, mercilessly taking in his writhing, his helplessness, Hutch could see a familiar sparkling in her eyes, the dancing flame of fatal hate he'd seen too often. The other side of the medal of righteousness. He had no doubt Zadie thought she was right in doing whatever it would take to make a cop tell her what she wanted to know. She was on a crusade for the right thing. And Starsky was not only standing in her way - he was the enemy. For people like Zadie and Dobbs, there were no further justifications needed to kill him.

McLean's door was opened behind its corner, the room's inhabitant appearing in the kitchen again with reddish eyes and hanging lids.

"'Ey, what's the commotion about, guys?" he slurred lazily. Starsky's scream earlier had probably disturbed his stoned comfort. Before he could lean against the wall again, Zadie turned to order him, "Mac, get me a chair, will ya?"

McLean saluted slightly, but obeyed without a comment, picking up one of the kitchen chairs to place it next to Zadie, who pointed her chin at Starsky.

Understanding, McLean and Dobbs both reached down to drag the detective up roughly and sit him on the chair. Dobbs' hand remained on his shoulder, holding him in place.

Hutch had pushed himself off the table, like he just wanted to help, when in fact the sight of them touching his partner had just kicked him into motion. Making it look like he thought it necessary to keep their captive from trying something, he took hold of Starsky's other shoulder, gently, comfortingly.

"Here," Zadie said, throwing Hutch a piece of rope she'd produced from her back pocket. "We don't want him to keep falling off, do we?"

Hutch stared at the rope, then at Starsky, who had already moved his hands behind the chair, bravely trying to suppress a wince, but failing miserably. He flinched, hard, when Hutch touched his injured hand, and it took all Hutch had to not apologize two hundred times while he carefully tied his friend's hands, making sure it wasn't too tight, hating himself desperately. When he was done, he discreetly squeezed Starsky's wrist once, earning a slight wriggle of unbroken fingers.

"Well," Zadie spoke, when Hutch stepped back behind Starsky. She was smiling in obvious anticipation, the cold, hateful delight she drew out of watching her helpless victim enough to send yet another ice-cold shiver down Hutch's spine. "Don't let anyone say we don't give pigs a chance to act like human beings. So, Detective," she mockingly softened her expression, "d'you wanna tell us where the SFPD is holding our friends prisoner?"

Starsky forced himself to meet her eyes, head-on. "Zadie," he sighed as if disappointed by her idiocy, "I wouldn't tell ya, if I knew."

Zadie grinned. Hutch could see his partner's legs twitch involuntarily, as Zadie approached him slowly, lifting the taser.

"At this point, Snoopy," she said, emphasizing the despised nickname, "I can't say I'm not glad to hear that."

The barrel was once again placed against Starsky's neck, but this time, Zadie made sure she was indeed not touching him.

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Starsky's last encounter with electricity had been some weeks ago, at Hutch's place. A piece of pepperoni had fallen off the slice of pizza Starsky had snatched out of the box Hutch was carrying over to the coffee table, and it had landed somewhere next to the blender on the breakfast counter.

Upon trying to reclaim it - more out of neatnickiness than the actual desire to digest something that had made direct contact with Hutch's breakfast counter - Starsky's index finger had accidentally brushed against a damaged wire. The electric shock had been only a slight one, not even leaving much of a burn behind on his skin, but it had hurt, of course. He had yelped in surprise and pain.

There hadn't been much sympathy from his partner, really - "Don't touch electricity, Gordo. It's not edible." - and a tired banter followed about rats gnawing away the wires to the blender, because they couldn't stand the morning smell anymore, and the little punishments you'd always but always instantly achieve for being too much of a greedy gut.

Neither of them would have thought, back then, that the next time this memory flashed through both their minds, electricity would touch Starsky. And not just a tiny piece of raw wire, either.

When Zadie pressed the taser against his neck, Starsky forced himself to sit very still, deciding struggling against the inevitable would look pathetic, and he didn't want to add even more fuel to the raging delight Zadie obviously draw from this. 'Talk about a power trip...'

But once she released the first jolt of electricity into his body, there was no helping the violent jerk that his muscles all made in unison. This time, there would be a burn visible, he knew that much, but it wasn't the heat scalding his skin that was the most painful part of it. It was the frantic cramping up that locked the air in his lungs and forced his muscles to clench and unclench against his will. For a moment, he wasn't the master of his own body anymore, could only squeeze his eyes shut to seek shelter within his own mind.

As suddenly as it had begun, the sensation went, leaving him to face the aftermath. A slight tremor showed the attempts of tensed muscles to ease up again, though something told them they couldn't. Starsky was panting, suddenly aware he hadn't been able to breathe.

In front of him, Dobbs and Zadie stood side by side, studying him like a guinea pig in a cage. They were visibly content with the efficiency of their new toy.

"Wow," Norton McLean's quiet voice could be heard from behind Starsky, its owner once more leaning against the wall. "Cool."

Hutch kept his silence, but Starsky could sense movement behind himself, as Hutch pushed away from the table to turn around the chair and stand in his partner's line of vision, next to Zadie.

Starsky could have sworn the blond had paled a shade or two.

He cast Hutch the quickest reassuring glance and watched him clench his jaw at the sight of the fresh burn.

"Well," Zadie's voice drew Starsky's attention back to her. She playfully waved the taser gun. "Now that you two," she patted it like a pet, "are acquainted - care to tell us the truth, Snoop?"

"Actually, yes," Starsky nodded, surprised that his voice sounded raspy, even to himself. He couldn't remember having screamed. Had he?

Zadie and Dobbs exchanged a surprised glance that, to their victim, looked a bit disappointed. Hutch didn't even seem to bother acting like he bought that.

"Oh?" Zadie asked, brows lifted.

"Yeah." Starsky drew in a deep breath and revealed, "My real name's Dave. You can stop calling me Snoop now." He nodded gravely.

Zadie's face fell. Starsky wondered if she had really expected success to grace her work so early in the game. But then, he had no doubts about being the first person she had ever tortured.

"Funny," she said. "Really. Funny. Davy."

"Uh... Dave," he corrected. "Or David."

She ignored that, approached him again. "So I take it you liked that?"

His eyes wandered down to the barrel of the taser, following it on its search for a new spot. "I could think of more entertaining things, but..." he started a wisecrack, but trailed off, when the barrel came to rest against his right side.

He barely had time to make eye contact with Zadie, before she pulled the trigger.

The overwhelming sensation of displacement, of being suddenly snatched out of reality and thrown into a dragging lake of blurry pain lasted longer this time, and when he finally felt his lungs obey his frantic orders again, Starsky found that the large gulps of air he took mixed with something in his mouth. Tasting iron, he spit out blood - pathetically enough hitting his own knee - and probed around to find he had bitten his tongue.

The glare he wanted to shoot Zadie turned into an agonized wince when he tried to draw in a deeper breath. A small moan escaped, no doubt acting like a blow to his watching partner's stomach.

But though he felt deeply for Hutch, knowing full well the blond was walking through his own personal hell here, Starsky couldn't stop his mind from starting to focus more on himself, as his body protested viciously against the abuse it had taken already. Not only did his right hand still feel like it was on fire, broken bones screaming at him to do something about it, and it hurt to breathe, but there was also an odd feeling of confusion - or rather anxiety - slowly spreading within him. He was nervous, though he was too exhausted to be nervous. His skin seemed to crawl with shivers of a fear he didn't really feel. He was restless, gaze darting about against his will.

'Don't touch electricity, Gordo,' Hutch's voice echoed in his head, and he shot his partner a puzzled frown. Had Hutch just said that? But it wasn't him touching the electricity, it was the other way around. Wasn't it?

Trying to move his hands to rub his eyes, he gasped when his injured hand was met with resistance. 'Right. Can't move. Right.' He closed his eyes, shook his head slightly. 'What's wrong with me?'

He flinched, startled, when someone grabbed his chin to drag up his lolling head. Eyes flying open, he saw Zadie staring at him. She gave his chin a rough shake.

"'Ey cop, you still with us?" Upon seeing that he obviously recognized her, she let go of him and stepped back, next to Dobbs, who, eyes never leaving Starsky, reached out, waving with his fingers.

"This is getting boring. Let me try something."

Reluctantly, Zadie handed him the gun.

Weighing it with one hand in a poor version of a John Wayne-gesture, Dobbs approached his captive. He smiled, friendly and challenging at the same time. "Look... Dave," he said, tilting his head to emphasize his gracious use of Starsky's name, "why don't you just tell us what we want to know? Hmm? Do you really think you stand a chance against Mr. 250 Volt here?"

Hutch snorted.

Dobbs shot him a surprised look.

"It's not an electrical socket, Brighton," Hutch pointed out sarcastically. "Could be it's... a bit more than that."

Dobbs just grinned and turned back to Starsky. "Well?" he asked expectantly.

"Well, if this was a quiz, I'd bet my money on Smarty Smurf," Starsky said. His casual appearance was damaged, though; he had to flutteringly squeeze his eyes shut once more and shake his head slightly, looking as if he was trying to get rid of a nagging noise buzzing in his ears.

He was stopped by a sudden pressure against the side of his head, beneath his left temple. Startled, he cast Dobbs an upward glance.

"If you don't tell me what I wanna know right now, your next bet could be whether or not you're gonna wet your pants," Dobbs growled.

Panicked, Starsky tried to jerk away from the pressure, but Brighton held him securely in place.

"Talk, pig!"

"I don't know!" Starsky shot back, honestly afraid. "I swear I don't-"

He could hear Hutch talk over his words, but suddenly all noise and light and meaning blurred, then vanished.

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Hutch wouldn't have thought it possible, but, yes, he could feel worse than when he'd felt his best friend's bones snap in his grip.

Much worse.

Watching Starsky's body tense up at the first electric shock, listening to the choked cry that accompanied it and the frantic, probably unconscious puffs of air that followed, once the abused muscles slowly eased up again, Hutch felt he was going to be sick. He was still standing behind Starsky, leaning against the table, clinging to its surface, staring at swollen, blue-ish digits that had bent at an unnatural angle in the process of cramping. He could only imagine what that must feel like.

Once the direct effects of the shock had subsided, Hutch could practically sense his hurting friend's effort to not turn his head and search for Hutch's gaze, so he discreetly moved into Starsky's sight, even though he found it hard to meet the other one's eyes, as if by his just standing there and letting it happen, he had somehow had hurt his partner himself - again.

He knew Starsky knew what he was going through, and a quick, reassuring glance confirmed that deeply settled knowledge, but he didn't need Starsky to blame him in order to feel like scum, anyway. After all - what the hell was he doing here! Letting the bad guys torture your partner wasn't exactly what his job description had read, and he never ever would have thought a situation like this possible. Even when, in the past, they had been on different sides, undercover-wise, Starsky and he had been at least somehow linked. Watching each other's back. Covering both sides of a wide area. But the second one of them had been in danger, or hurt, the game had always been called off instantly. Protecting your partner was more important than the bust. Discussion finished.

And just how protective was he, every so often searching for Starsky's gaze, offering silent, hidden comfort, while at the same time he stood back to give the bad guys room! This was insane! He couldn't let them continue with this until they inflicted serious damage! What had they been thinking? What had he been thinking!

Guilt burning like a fever, he listened to Brighton Dobbs' ridiculous attempt at sounding like a gangster and snorted angrily.

When Dobbs looked at him, it was almost as if he were afraid. Scared of having said something dumb.

Which, in fact, he had.

"It's not an electrical socket, Brighton," Hutch informed him. "Could be it's... a bit more than that."

Frighteningly more, Hutch thought. He wanted to add something else, something that, in retrospect, probably would have blown his cover, but Dobbs had already turned back to Starsky.

Hutch's thoughts raced in his mind. He needed to do something. He needed to stop this. But then - what would happen, if he blew his cover? If whatever plan he came up with failed, and he was out in the open, too? Would he be able to help Starsky then? '

"I won't be able to help you." - "Just don't go too far, huh?" '

Their earlier words repeating themselves in his head like a mantra, he focused on Starsky - and actually flinched, when he saw Dobbs press the gun against the brunet's head.

"Brighton," he said, but it came as a whisper, not loud enough to be heard by anyone.

Next to him, he could sense Zadie tense too. They exchanged a quick glance.

"Brighton," Zadie said warningly.

"Brighton," Hutch repeated, listening to Starsky's panicked plea, which only seemed to fully set Dobbs off. "Brighton, no! Don't-"

But it was too late. Brighton had already pulled the trigger, blind with fury. All Hutch managed to achieve was to break the gun's contact with its target by pushing Brighton away.

"Stop!"

Brighton was thrown to the ground, landing hard on his back with a startled expression on his face. The taser clattered down next to him. Quickly, Zadie bent down to reclaim it. The irritated glare she shot Dobbs met blank confusion.

Hutch was beside himself with fury and concern. Gently holding Starsky's head up by his chin, he tried to get a direct look at pupils that didn't want to stay still. Tiny tremors shook Starsky's body. A slender trail of blood ran out of his nose.

Desperately trying to ignore the ice-cold feeling gnawing at his stomach, Hutch fought to stay in character. Nevertheless, he allowed a deeply concerned frown to settle on Philip Hunter's features. "David?"

It felt wrong, as always, not using his partner's last name, but it would have to make do. He just wanted Starsky to hear his voice, let him know he was safe now.

There was no immediate reaction but an intensifying of frantic blinking, as Starsky obviously struggled to find reality through the fog.

Hit by a thought, Hutch tried again. "Snoop," he said, less softly this time, and gave the chin he held the lightest shake. Suddenly sensing Brighton Dobbs taking a step towards them, he snapped his head to him, eyes flashing. "You moron! You could've killed him!"

"I-" Brighton started, but Hutch didn't let him finish.

"We need him alive! And lucid! How's he going to tell us anything now, huh!" He waved at the curly head as if for proof. When Hutch had withdrawn his grip, it had sunk down again, Starsky being unable to hold it up by himself. Discreetly, Hutch had left the hand formerly holding his friend's chin on his shoulder, the urge to keep the contact his own.

"I didn't want to kill him," Dobbs defended himself. He seemed shaken by his own thoughtlessness, or maybe he was just transforming into a pissed little boy as always, when he was facing a lecture. Hutch had seen it happen with Ethan Gerardy before.

"Just roast his brains a little!" Hutch shot back and shook his head, exasperated, while he turned to Starsky again, clearly stating that Dobbs, in his eyes, wasn't even worth the lecture. "Word of advice, Kid," he muttered without looking at the man, "in case you ever want to threaten a guy with a real gun - don't shoot him in the heart."

"He's not dead, is he!" Dobbs protested.

That earned him a glare so furious from the blond, that he actually took a hasty step back.

"Because I stopped you!"

"But-"

"Okay, okay," Zadie cut Brighton off, lifting her hands calmingly, as she stepped in between the fighting parties. "Timeout. Hunter's right," she told Brighton and held up the taser. "No more trusting you with this."

"No more using 'this,' is more like it," Hutch grumbled. He had crouched down to look into Starsky's face. "He's out."

As if on cue, Starsky mumbled something. His curls shook, as he tried to lift his head, but failed.

Hutch flinched. Out of mere reflex, his hand shot forward to touch Starsky's knee. Too far away to have heard it, McLean pushed himself off the wall. "Show's over, huh?" he said, his monotone voice never changing. "Damn shame. Anyone care for a smoke?" Without waiting for a reply, he strolled off.

The sound of his door falling shut was talked over by Zadie, who had frowned at the whimper escaping the semi-conscious detective on the chair. "What'd he say?"

"S-say?" Hutch asked. "Didn't hear-"

"Hutch?" Starsky mumbled again. He was still trying to lift his head. From where he sat crouched down next to him, Hutch could see a confused frown spread on his face.

"'Hutch'?" Zadie repeated. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hutch opened his mouth to answer, but found he didn't know what to say. "Uh..."

"H-Hutch?" Having at last managed to remotely focus on Hutch, Starsky looked up at him, but squeezed his eyes shut, when a wave of pain hit him. "Ouch," he whispered and, too low for Zadie to catch, asked, "What...?"

Hutch lightly squeezed Starsky's knee, making it appear as though he was actually holding onto the captive for support, since he was still crouched down in front of him. "It's a name," he answered Zadie's question, shooting her a grave look. "I think."

To his great relief, she rolled her eyes, annoyed. "Aw, great!" she exclaimed and glared at Dobbs, who had kept his distance, standing uselessly by her side, looking like a kid watching his parents inspect a precious vase he had broken during his wild play. "You really pushed him over the edge, Bright Boy!" she snapped.

Brighton lifted his shoulders helplessly, looking lost, and none of them noticed the breath Hutch allowed himself to release.

Starsky had tried to move his hands and winced when his forgetfulness was punished with piercing agony shooting up his right arm. Watching, his heart bleeding for his friend, Hutch once more tightened his grip on his knee. Seeing Zadie focus on Dobbs, who was stammering some witty reply to her accusation, he lightly tugged at Starsky's jeans.

Pleading dark blue eyes found his, loaded with questions, but somehow their communication lines must still have been functioning, for - ever so slowly - Hutch could see some of the heavy helplessness lift off his partner's expression as recognition crawled back out of the corner the shock had thrown it into. It didn't fully make it, though, as Starsky once more tried to move, his instinctive urge to cling when he was lost and in pain breaking through. Again, he flinched, winced, when he was held back.

Hutch curtly shook his head. 'Sit still. It's okay, I'll handle everything. Just sit still and play unconscious.'

It was hard to stay calm himself; worry screamed at him from deep inside, tickling his encyclopedia of a brain so that it spat out random facts about the damages electric shocks could cause and comparing his knowledge to whatever symptoms he found gazing back at him from Starsky's eyes. Not to mention the nagging little voice inside his head that continued to whisper accusations at him, telling him over and over again that this was all his fault. If he just had had the guts to blow his cover and tell the bad guys the truth, none of this would have happened in the first place.

Okay, if he'd done that, both he and Starsky would probably be dead now, but then... there was no feeling of guilt in the afterlife, was there?

"Good point," Zadie's voice suddenly tore him out of his thoughts. Contrary to Hutch, she had been listening to whatever Dobbs had been helpfully pointing out. When Hutch looked up, he found her studying the back of Starsky's head in contemplation.

An icy shudder ran down his spine. "I'm sorry, wha-"

But before Hutch could finish his demand that she fill him in on what he had missed, Zadie answered his unspoken question by roughly grabbing a handful of tousled curls, yanking Starsky's head back.

Starsky gasped, startled. His eyes flew to their edges, panicked, searching for his partner. Hutch could see that, though some memories seemed to have found their way back into the brunet's abused mind, an overwhelming feeling of helplessness still held him tightly in its grip. He desperately needed some guidance here, and all Hutch could do was meet a questioning, desperate gaze with a reassuring one, the ever-present crease deepening on his forehead when he was forced to watch Zadie tap the barrel of the taser against Starsky's cheek, wanting his attention.

That she got. Starsky flinched, and violently. His eyes snapped to her face in clear fright. His breathing quickened.

"Aw," Zadie muttered and blinked in her best version of motherly concern. "Lookit, the poor guy's scared. Tsk," she added, glancing at Dobbs, without letting go of Starsky, "Brighton. You scared him."

Brighton didn't look like he minded.

Hutch lifted from his crouch, so that Starsky could see him more easily, but his partner's eyes were wandering up to meet Zadie's, when she spoke again.

"San Fran, Dave." She paused, as if to give him time to think.

Visibly confused, Starsky opened his mouth to reply something, but frowned. He looked at Hutch again. "Wha... ?"

"San Francisco," Zadie repeated. She gave the curls she held a small jerk, causing a gasp. "You wanted to tell us about San Fran. C'mon, just the address. You know it, don't you?"

It broke Hutch's heart to see how desperate his friend appeared to be. It was obvious that Starsky didn't understand the question, just words that made no sense to him. He probably only knew that he hurt. And that Hutch wasn't helping him.

Hutch briefly closed his eyes, but they snapped open, when he heard Starsky whimper in fright.

"No."

Having reached the end of her patience, Zadie had let the taser do some wandering, until it had come to once more rest against Starsky's temple, where an ugly red burn stood out starkly against the pallor of his face.

"No?" she asked mockingly, adding pressure to the tender spot.

Starsky winced and closed his eyes. Hutch could see him shaking with fear.

"Z-Zadie..." Hutch said. So this was it. This was the edge. More, he couldn't endure. More, he couldn't let go by. If blowing his cover was what it would take, so be it. Hell, at least then he'd finally be able to treat his best friend like a human being again! And, anyway - whatever the consequences, he would not let her shock Starsky again. He couldn't.

"Zadie, put that-"

"O-oak... Oak Street."

The stammered words, faint, yet urgent with fright, hung in the air like an echo. They had drowned out Hutch's demand, as everyone's attention was focused solely on Starsky, who swallowed nervously, unsure whom to look at.

Zadie was the first to snap back into action. Roughly, she shook Starsky's head again. "Oak Street," she barked. "Oak Street in San Fran? Which number?"

Starsky muttered a number, frowned and corrected himself.

Finally, with the most contented smile, Zadie let go of him. She didn't waste another look at him. "Someone get him outta the kitchen," she muttered, the command sounding more like she was talking to herself. "Mac!" she then yelled into the direction of Norton McLean's room. "Come be useful!"

When there was no audible reaction, she turned to Brighton Dobbs, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb. "You go get him to help you, 'kay? Hunter," she said to Hutch, who up until then had stood staring at his partner, dumbfounded, "let's talk outside."

Hutch watched her pass him on her way to the backdoor. He was slow to follow, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from his partner.

Starsky let his head hang, his eyes half-closed. He seemed to be mumbling something to himself, then fell quiet.

'What the hell is on Oak Street, San Fran!' Hutch wanted to scream at him, but he doubted he'd get a satisfying answer. Starsky looked more than out.

McLean emerged from his room, along with a grayish cloud of spicy smoke. He rubbed at his eyes. "Madame yelled?"

Hutch followed Zadie outside and almost ran into the half-closed door when he looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Starsky slide from the chair, as Brighton untied him. He lay where he landed, motionless.

"Now, that was fun."

Zadie's voice dragged Hutch's attention to her. She was just lighting a cigarette and stopped, startled, when he reached out and unceremoniously took it.

"Thought you didn't smoke?"

"Only when I've earned it," he commented dryly, taking a lungful of smoke. "That was good thinking back there," he then said.

She smiled. "Thank you. 'Twas Dobbs' idea, though."

Hutch grumbled something unintelligible and took another drag.

"You think he told us the truth?" Zadie suddenly asked.

Hutch cast her a surprised look. "Who, the cop?"

"No, Santa Claus. Dummy."

He shrugged. "What with your diplomatic talents... Yeah, I think he did. Why wouldn't he? He was completely out of it."

How true. Up until now, having his mind run 'Oak Street' over and over hadn't helped any - Hutch was pretty sure he had never heard that name before. Yet, he couldn't help thinking that his friend had looked way too... out of it to have come up with any random street name. No, Starsky had known which address to say, he had even corrected himself about the number. It must be something he'd recalled.

"Philip? Have you ever killed someone?"

Maybe it was some place Starsky knew from his childhood days. Most of his family lived in California, didn't they? And come to think of it, Hutch thought he could recall some uncle from Starsky's dad's side, who lived in San Francisco. Or at least had lived there.

'Aw, no!'

Starsky hadn't... Had he? Maybe it'd been the first thing his struggling mind had spat out at the mention of the city. Maybe, in a twisted way, Zadie's plan had, indeed, worked.

'God, please don't let it be his uncle's address!'

"Hunter?"

Suddenly realizing that Zadie had been calling his name for some time now, Hutch snapped his eyes to her, then down to his right hand, where the cigarette had burned itself to death.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "sorry, what'd you-" When he looked up from where he'd stomped the cigarette butt into the ground, Zadie was holding a new one out for him.

Hutch took it with a forced smile. "Thanks. What'd you say?"

"I asked," she said, lighting his cigarette for him, "if you'd ever killed someone before."

His blood ran cold. He was glad he hadn't looked in her eyes, but at her hands holding the lighter. Clearing his throat, he took a small step back and blew out smoke, studying her features. Was that fear, concern, regret, all of it or none in her eyes?

Excitement maybe?

"We still need him," he said calmly. The poetic irony of that statement made him smile inwardly. 'I need him.'

"Until we know he's telling us the truth about the place," Zadie said.

He didn't break the eye contact. "There's no better hostage than a cop," he pointed out. "As you said earlier, 'might come in handy'. Once we're in business - we've gotta get outta here."

A brief silence passed.

"You don't like to think about killing a cop, do you?"

Hutch thought about that. "I've seen what happens to people who did."

"And were caught," Zadie added.

"Everybody makes mistakes," Hutch said. "No one's exempt from that."

"Yeah." She grinned and waved her head at the kitchen door. "Just look at him."

"My point exactly."

Zadie studied him for one more moment, then snapped her cigarette away and turned for the door again. "You okay with checking out the address tomorrow with Brighton?"

Hutch shrugged.

"'Kay. Hey, Hunter?"

He lifted his brows questioningly.

"You know, only the one who pulls the trigger gets ten to life, when it comes down. The others can always claim they weren't around when it happened."

Hutch snorted. "Bullshit, Zade. Ever heard of abetment? And it's the chair for a cop, not ten to life."

She frowned. "Really?" And at his nodding asked, "How come you know all that?"

"My old man's a lawyer."

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There was a small streak of blood on the kitchen table. In the pale white light of the flashlight, it glowed almost brown, as if the wood had rusted, but Hutch knew it was blood. He stopped for a shudder, and let the light wipe over the table as if accidentally, holding the flashlight down, so that he just saw where he stepped on his way to the cellar door.

It was way past midnight, party long over, the house slumbering in snorey silence. Party... Yeah, that had been torture (Hutch smirked at that thought.), sitting around in the 'lobby' with Zadie, McLean, Brighton and a miraculously reappearing Christian Gruder, listening to Zadie's and Brighton's plans and organizational brilliance, as well as to a never-ending description of the most horrible afternoon of his life.

Zadie had been proud of herself. And Brighton had been proud of Zadie. Christian had been quiet, McLean stoned. As for Hutch, he had, with admirable self-discipline, kept himself from drinking too much. Once more, he'd been glad Philip Hunter was a rather quiet fellow, not one to brag about any cop's bones he'd might have broken that day, or some other stuff he didn't want to say out loud, as if that would make a difference. But then, as long as he didn't talk, no one could catch the quivery mixture of fury, self-hatred, despair and all the other emotions that swept his mind whenever this afternoon's picture flashed up in front of his inner eyes like memories of a nightmare, jumbled and disconnected.

The mere hour they had tried to get Starsky to talk - to lie - seemed like a whole day to Hutch, or a week. Or, no, some interminable amount of time, a stretchable material that had caught them all in a large bubble, making it possible to go on with it forever, when to the outside world it had appeared to be just a short while.

A short while that had been more than enough, though, for him to helplessly stand by and watch, as he and Starsky had both dug themselves in even deeper with every new piece of the picasso-esque puzzle Zadie had started to hammer together, drawn by her wishful imagination. Now that he wasn't held in the tight grasp of panic, Hutch couldn't believe how uncoordinated he himself had played this, how... helpless. To first get Starsky - Starsk! - to come up with a story, and in his condition too, then make him tell something completely different and finally go with Zadie and her fantasies about political prisoners...

As the thoughts once more washed through him, carried on a wave of guilt, Hutch rolled his eyes at himself, closed them briefly with a quiet sigh. Some undercover-trained cop he was...

Before he carefully dragged the cellar door open, he hesitated, straining to listen to any suspicious sounds, but the only audible thing was a symphony of snoring performed by Dobbs and McLean. Given the amount of red wine Zadie had consumed, she was probably fast asleep as well - and probably not in her own bed.

The cellar was pitch black - there were no windows down there - and the clammy cold tugged at Hutch's skin when he turned on the second step to quietly close the door behind him.

He had only been down there once before, to check on Starsky's description of the group's equipment, the same equipment that Brighton and McLean had brought up into Brighton's room earlier, once they had dumped their prisoner down there.

Zadie's suggestion.

'Sneaky little bitch.'

For a house of its size, the cellar was small, consisting of only two usable rooms; one bore a pretty impressive collection of wines, the other one had born a pretty impressive collection of a modern armory. That was where Hutch found his friend, when he shone the flashlight inside, careful to not hit him directly with the blinding light and startle him.

Starsky sat slumped against a cold radiator, to which he was tied with his arms uncomfortably twisted behind his back. He appeared to be asleep (at least Hutch hoped he wasn't still unconscious); his eyes were closed, and his head rested sideways against the radiator, tilted slightly backwards, so that Hutch could easily see the colorful bruises on his face, dried streaks of blood.

Out of pure sadism, if you asked Hutch, Brighton and McLean had put a large strip of duct tape over Starsky's mouth.

'Bastards! Who would he yell for, anyway? Us!'

Hutch carefully half-closed the door to the room, making sure he'd still hear any other nightly visitors, and hurried to his friend's side. "Starsky," he whispered.

Starsky didn't react, but he moaned quietly when Hutch touched the side of his face, lightly, careful to not brush against any spot that might hurt.

"Starsky, wake up. It's me. Starsk."

A small frown started on Starsky's face, deepening when Hutch gently stroked thick curly hair, still softly whispering to his friend. "C'mon, Buddy, wake up, show me you're okay. It's Hutch, it's alright."

Starsky stirred as he edged closer to wakefulness, and then suddenly startled awake, his eyes going from mere slits to wide open. A gasp came out muffled against the tape.

Startled himself, Hutch reflexively drew his hand away, only to reach out instantly again, touching Starsky's shoulder reassuringly. "Easy. Easy, it's okay. 'Sjust me."

Confusion glowed in Starsky's midnight blues. He scanned his new surroundings with fast glances, ever aware of his gaze returning to Hutch every split second, obviously trying to determine what to make out of this situation.

Reading the stream of thoughts displayed in his friend's eyes, Hutch took a gentle hold of Starsky's chin to make him look directly at him. "It's okay. They're all asleep. I'm alone. Not here to hurt you anymore."

That, at least, got through, as Hutch discovered with relief. All nervous fright suddenly vanished from Starsky's face, and he cast his friend an annoyed look. Hutch could almost hear his voice inside his head. 'Don't be funny, Blintz.'

There was another muffled sound that sounded suspiciously like Starsky was affectionately insulting him. At hearing it, Hutch arched his brows apologetically. "Um, that is... maybe a bit. Just one more time."

He smiled sadly, seeing that Starsky understood what he meant. The brunet squeezed his eyes tightly shut, making as much of a show out of it as he could (Starsky's idea of giving comfort under impossible conditions, as Hutch knew very well) and nodded once.

Hutch peeled off one edge of the tape and hesitated. "Ready?"

Starsky opened one eye for an annoyed glare.

"'Kay." And at 'three', Hutch pulled off the tape, mercifully quickly. He was impressed by how little sound his partner managed to make.

"Thanks," Starsky croaked and gave a little cough.

Hutch smiled. "Thirsty?" he asked, lifting a bottle of water he'd brought along. "There's also wine, of course."

Starsky snorted a laugh and coughed again. "Water's fine."

Hutch helped him take a few sips. "I can't wash the blood offa your face, though," he said ruefully. "They'd notice."

"I know," Starsky replied reassuringly. "It's okay, really. I'm fine now." A wince betrayed his words. He didn't let Hutch react to that, but looked around, avoiding the blond's concerned gaze. "How'd I get down here?"

"Dobbs and McLean," Hutch answered. Shifting his position, he leaned forward to untie his friend. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"'Sall kinda blurry," Starsky repeated absently. He was twisting around as to see what Hutch was doing and flinched when he felt various parts of his body protest against that kind of movement. "What're you doing?"

"Untying you, dummy. Stop wriggling."

"But... Hutch."

Hutch stopped to look at his friend, who arched his brows.

"What for?"

Understanding, the blond slumped his shoulders. He scratched his forehead, then returned to his task. "I can't talk to you like this," he stated flatly.

"Hutch..." Hutch could hear Starsky's voice again, softly - something must have shown on his face, but he chose to pretend he hadn't heard, not wanting to allow himself the comfort of forgiveness.

"There you go," he finally muttered and carefully brought Starsky's hands up front. When he took in the damage to the right one, his face fell. "Aw, God," he mumbled, to himself really, then to his friend, "Buddy, I'm sorry. I didn't think. I-I... I'm sorry." A rueful smile curled his lips slightly, but it held no humor. "That plan just sucked."

"Yeah, well, we don't go for solo plans, do we?" Starsky replied. He was visibly trying his best to not show how much he was hurting. A fine film of sweat was glittering on his face, and his features were strained, making it hard to see the offered support shining through his eyes. "And... speaking of going..." He coughed once, lifting one arm to have it stifled against the sleeve of his t-shirt. A moan followed, not as equally muffled. Reaching out to press his good hand against his bruised side, Starsky squeezed his eyes shut.

Gentle hands kept him from curling up, then wandered down to carefully probe his ribs. "Hurt a lot, hmm?" Hutch asked softly, shared pain coloring his voice. "I don't think any of your ribs are broken, though," he added after a moment, but looked at his partner's useless right hand that lay in Starsky's lap.

"Hutch."

"Hmm?" Gazing up, Hutch found himself meeting midnight blues, that were filled with pain and struggling for self-control. Wanting to look supportive, not forgiving, as the message was there was nothing to forgive.

"Stop it, Blintz," Starsky mumbled. He needed to stop after that for a few quick breaths, then continued, "I'd have done the same thing." His attempt at an ironic smile came out somewhat quivery.

For his partner's sake, Hutch played along, gracing Starsky's effort with a smile of his own, while he brushed his thumb lightly over the taser burn visible on Starsky's temple. "Sure, Babe, I know that."

"Come to think of it," Starsky added, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the radiator, "next time the tight spot we're in looks like this, I might just do it."

Hutch chuckled slightly, not convinced, but grateful to his friend.

"I'll keep that in mind." He lowered his hand to carefully turn Starsky's face to the other side and get a better look at a particularly large dark blue bruise that the barrel of Brighton's gun had left underneath the swollen eye. Wincing in shared pain, Hutch sighed. "I can't do anything for you here, really, but..." Lifting his index finger, he reached for his pocket with the other hand. "I brought you some Vicodin."

Starsky's eyes lit up. "You're beautiful," he stated with sincere relief, and sighed when he took in the sight of the two pills Hutch showed him in his outstretched hand.

The blond frowned. "Yeah," he muttered absently, letting the pills fall into Starsky's good hand and grabbing the water bottle again. "People keep telling me. Pain that bad, huh?" he added concernedly, watching his partner dry-down the relief-promising capsules with desperate speed, before he even reached for the water.

Catching the look on Hutch's face, Starsky hesitated, almost ruefully. "Didn't I say don't let me fool ya?" he finally came up with a half-hearted wise crack and took a large gulp of water.

Hutch guided the bottle safely back down to the ground. Deep worry had yet to leave his expression. "Where's it worst? Fingers?" he asked, but bent his head to inspect the angry red burn on the side of Starsky's neck.

"Head," Starsky corrected quietly.

Hutch looked up sharply. For a brief moment of eye-contact, there was silence. At last, the blond sighed deeply. "Damn, what a mess this is," he mumbled as if to himself. "You oughta be in the hospital."

"I'd choose home," Starsky said. The pills were obviously kicking in by now; he sounded less strained, and he didn't blink as often as before, Hutch noticed, a flash of new guilt washing through him. He didn't even want to start to imagine how his friend must have felt before.

"Yeah, well, you're done choosing for today," Hutch replied. His expression suddenly changed when a thought hit him, and he sat back to look directly at his partner. "Starsk, d'you remember anything after Brighton shocked you?"

Starsky furrowed his brows. "Thought it was Zadie." As his eyes wandered off, following a hazy memory, the frown deepened. "Wasn't it?"

"At first," Hutch explained. "Um... so you don't recall..." He trailed off, one hand reflexively brushing against Starsky's temple.

That must've triggered something, given Starsky's sudden flinch. "Now," he nodded quickly, but stopped himself, wincing, when his body obviously just reminded him that nodding was off the list of available movements for the moment.

Hutch discreetly squeezed his shoulder, moving a bit closer, so that he could keep his hand on the back of Starsky's neck comfortingly.

"Yeah, I remember," Starsky said. "But... 'sblurry. Why?" he added after a moment's thought. "Did I do someth... Oh." He grimaced, eyes widening. "Oh, shit. I think... I-I didn't blow your cover, did I?"

Hutch smiled reassuringly and shook his head. "No, don't worry. Would I be sitting here then?"

"Maybe I'm hallucinating."

"You could be," Hutch quipped. "But you're not. And you didn't do anything, don't worry. It's just..." he hushed himself, bit his lip. "Starsk, what's on Oak Street, San Francisco?"

Starsky stared at him blankly. "What?"

Hutch sighed. "Wh-when Zadie asked you again where their guys were being heldd, you were so out of it, you-"

"I told them that address!" Starsky interrupted him, surprised.

Hutch nodded.

"Oh."

Silence.

After a second, Hutch tilted his head expectantly, brows climbing up. "Well?" he asked, stretching the word.

"Hmm? Oh. It's a toy store. Well," Starsky added with a half-shrug that stopped at the protest of cracked ribs. "At least it was one twenty years ago. My uncle Lenny used to take us there, when Nicky and I were kids. It's the only address in Frisco I know."

Hutch stared at him. "A toy store!" he repeated, pressing his lips together, when he noticed he'd increased in volume too much. "Are you sure?" he asked urgently.

"Yeah," Starsky answered. He didn't need to think about it.

Hutch wasn't calmed, yet. "You are? Yeah? It's not, like, Uncle Lenny's own address?"

Understanding, Starsky assured him, "No. Lenny moved so often, I could never recall his current address, and he's not living in California anymore, anyway. Trust me, it's a toy store."

Finally convinced, Hutch gave a small nod, but sighed, exasperated. "Shoulda expected that. Of course it'd be a toy store."

Starsky didn't listen. "Man," he muttered. "Must've been really out of it. I don't remember anything about giving them an address." He paused. "Didn't think I would."

Catching the dark tone, Hutch looked at his friend, gently tightening his grip on Starsky's neck. "Hey. It's not like you could've helped it." A sad smile rushed over his face, as he brushed his thumb underneath the burn on Starsky's temple once more. He only now noticed how cold his friend's skin was to the touch. Shrugging out of the light jacket he wore, he continued, "Never should've let Brightass get near you with that thing in the first place."

He didn't meet Starsky's eyes as he carefully laid the jacket around his shoulders.

"Brightass?"

Hearing the grin in Starsky's voice, Hutch looked up after all. The openly offered comfort he saw in his partner's eyes made him smile. Sadly, ruefully.

Starsky would've forgiven him anything, he knew that. That didn't mean he deserved it.

He shrugged. "Where the 'bright' comes from is beyond me. He could've killed you."

Starsky just looked at him. After a moment, he wordlessly tugged at Hutch's shirt.

The blond understood and moved closer, shifting his position, so that he sat beside Starsky against the wall, their shoulders touching. From the corner of his eyes he could see the brunet taking the opportunity to wince in telltale pain. Probably thought Hutch couldn't see. Feeling Hutch's head briefly touch his, though, he opened his eyes again, meeting sky blue eyes.

Another moment passed, until Starsky suddenly sniffed.

Instantly understanding, Hutch tilted his head away a tad, feeling himself blush. "What?" he asked innocently, when Starsky's eyes narrowed accusingly.

"Didn't I tell ya not to smoke, Blondie?"

"Didn't think I needed your permission."

Starsky snorted. "As if. Don't you start again!"

"Alright, alright," Hutch quickly said, lifting his hands in self-defense. "Won't happen."

"Yeah, sure." Pause. "What happens now? They gonna check out Oak Street?"

All easy humor fading from his face, Hutch nodded.

Starsky gazed at the ceiling. "Wonder what's in there now. Maybe it's still the same store." He smiled, rolling his head on the radiator, so he could watch Hutch avoiding his partner's eyes. "Hutch-"

"If," Hutch cut him off quietly, "Gerardy doesn't show by tomorrow night, when we're back, I'm pulling the plug."

"How's that gonna look?"

At that, Hutch met his eyes. "I won't let them touch you again. No discussion."

Starsky opened his mouth, but Hutch, again, cut him off.

"Dobbs could've killed you. It's a miracle you just have a headache. You need to be checked out properly. Now, if," he stressed the word, "Gerardy's not here, when I get back tomorrow, I'm gonna get us away from here, one way or the other." A humorless chuckle breaking free, he shook his head. "I don't even wanna start to imagine what Zadie and Brighton might do, once they find out you sent us to a fucking toy store."

"Best one on this side of the continent," Starsky commented dryly.

Hutch snorted. "I think we know by now your taste in toys and theirs don't exactly match."

But Starsky hadn't listened. Another thought seemed to just have reached him. When he looked at Hutch again, there was effortfully-suppressed fear evident in his gaze. "Uh... y-you won't be here tomorrow?"

Hutch's face fell.

"Is that what you said?"

"Zadie said... I-I'm sure I can somehow..." Hutch stammered. It hadn't really occurred to him until now that by agreeing to accompany Brighton earlier that day, he'd also agreed to leave Starsky alone for hours. Alone with Zadie. "Fuck," he mumbled softly, dismayed. "I-I didn't... didn't even listen." Driving a hand through his hair, he gazed at his friend. "I'll tell them... um..."

"Hutch," Starsky hurried to assure him, by accident lifting his left hand to calmingly touch his knee, and gasped at the painful reminder to not do that. Before Hutch had any chance to feel even worse, though, Starsky quickly used his right one instead, swallowing hard to regain control over his voice. "Stop it. 'Sokay." He paused, drawing in a deep breath. "I'll be okay. 'Sjust that I know to play unconscious, when I hear footsteps," he joked halfheartedly.

Hutch wasn't calmed. It was obvious that the thought of spending a whole day alone in the cellar, never knowing when Zadie might feel it appropriate to take some more revenge for her arrested friends, scared Starsky immensely. Hell, it'd scare him too! It did!

"I'm so sorry, Starsky, I didn't even really listen to her. I just nodded. I-I'll think of something, I promise." He wiped over his face, squeezing his eyes shut briefly, mind chasing a solution already.

"Hutch."

Hutch turned his head.

"Don't raise their suspicions. Gerardy will show tomorrow." It was said with so much confidence that Hutch felt tempted to believe Starsky knew more than he could. "You do what you have to do, and I'll be a good, little, quiet prisoner. Zadie won't try anything."

"How can you know?" Hutch asked sarcastically. He felt like scum. Starsky was right, he couldn't think of any explanation as to why he shouldn't ride with Dobbs, not to mention that even if he stayed, it wouldn't mean he could hang around the cellar all the time. He sighed deeply. "Okay."

Before Starsky had the chance to make some more reassuring comments, Hutch lifted a warning finger, stating, "But by tomorrow night, we're gone. Either with Gerardy or without him. This is my call now. I'm not gonna place the bust above... you," he finished, averting his gaze.

"Wouldn't, either," Starsky muttered, earning a grateful smile.

Time passed, seeing them sitting shoulder to shoulder, silent, each lost in his own task of giving and drawing comfort from the other one's presence.

"Don't forget Topher, when you pull the plug," Starsky eventually said.

"Don't worry."

"Think Ethan will show?"

"He'd better," Hutch replied darkly. "Or he'll learn how to play undercover right the hard way." He seemed to listen to his own echo, then sighed, head bowing slightly. "Maybe I could offer to shoot you out in the woods some place and return la-"

"Like hell you will," Starsky interrupted him angrily. "Either we go, or we stay. Together."

"What happened to 'what if it was your decision, Hutch'?"

"Nothin'," Starsky replied. "It's just not. - And Ethan will show," he added after a second.

"Yeah."

They sat in silence after that; Starsky's head slowly, but steadily sank deeper, until it rested against Hutch's shoulder, as sleep claimed him. The blond didn't move, taking peculiar comfort from listening to his friend's steady breaths. Occasionally, Starsky would moan or whimper slightly, when either the pain or disturbing memories managed to reach him even in sleep, but he'd always calm at Hutch's soft hushes.

Hutch let his mind do some brainstorming, desperately trying to come up with a failsafe solution, a way out. But his own exhaustion, fueled by the never-ending guilt that beat in his chest like a second, black heart, made it hard to concentrate. Truth was, he had no idea how he would 'pull the plug' in case Ethan Gerardy did not greet him upon his return that night. Probably just try his best to fight off the group members, before they got their hands on Starsky, and run like hell... and not forget Topher.

'Don't forget Topher.'

He knew it meant a lot to his partner to save that man. That twisted mirror image of who Starsky believed he himself could have been. And though Hutch knew better, he wouldn't let his friend down on this. If Starsky needed to know Topher was getting help, Hutch would see to it. Question was how. But then, he'd have a lot of time for answering questions on his way to San Fran and back.

Hutch rubbed his face tiredly, feeling strained features under his fingertips, and absently rummaged for his watch. Glancing at it, he jumped. "Aw, shit! Starsk." Ever so gently, he moved away from his friend, supporting hands replacing the shoulder and side Starsky had been leaning against. "Starsky, wake up. C'mon."

Starsky stirred, frowned.

"Buddy, c'mon," Hutch urged, carefully shaking Starsky's shoulder. "I gotta go. Wake up."

With a low moan, Starsky dragged his eyes open, but squeezed them shut again instantly. He moaned again. "Ow, damn. 'Sno dream after all, huh?" he mumbled and moved his left hand to rub his eyes.

"Don't-" Hutch warned him, but too late.

Features tightening, Starsky bit his lip against a startled whimper. When he opened his eyes, he stared angrily at his hand, as if it was its fault. "Gotta learn that." He looked at Hutch, who was holding out the water for him. "Breakfast. Great."

Hutch smiled ruefully. "Know something, Starsk? You're a pain in the ass in the morning."

Starsky took a few sips and handed back the bottle. "That's what my Mom used to tell me. Only she used a different vocabulary." His eyes wandered over to where Hutch had carelessly thrown the rope he'd freed Starsky from hours before.

Hutch didn't notice. "I hope so," he answered to Starsky's wise crack. His smile vanished, when he looked at the bottle in his hand. "I can't leave that here, I'm sorry. But I'll be back as soon as possible, Babe, I prom-"

"Uh, Hutch," Starsky interrupted him softly. He waited for Hutch to focus on him, then slowly pointed at the rope. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Puzzled, Hutch followed Starsky's gesture - and paled. "Oh." He swallowed, his face falling. "Right," he mumbled, sounding like a little kid, who had just been reminded of his unfinished household chores. Visibly unwillingly, he grabbed the rope, taking a short moment to study it with disgust. "Well..." He cleared his throat. "Move y-your arms behind you."

Starsky obeyed, casting Hutch a comforting glance. His heart obviously bled for his friend. He bravely suppressed a wince, as he tried to have his wrists touch without putting any pressure on his mangled fingers. "Don't let this give you ideas, Blintz," he quipped.

Knowing the comment was meant to start a banter, to distract him, Hutch tried his best to play along, but his reply came quivery, sounding more like an apology than a counter. "You're not my type."

"What, it's just me?" Starsky asked, not giving up. "Otherwise this would be okay for ya!"

Hutch rolled his eyes.

"Aren't ya glad now you have to gag me too?"

At that, Hutch snorted a helpless chuckle and shook his head. He made sure the knots weren't too tight, just so that they looked convincing, and patted Starsky's shoulder, moving in front of him again. "Y'okay?" he asked softly. "Need anything, before I go? More water?"

"Only if you tell Miss Z to let me step outside later."

Hutch winced. "Oops. You don't need to go now, do you?"

Starsky smiled, but had to suppress a flinch, when he unwisely moved. When he spoke, his voice was slightly strained. "Just go already, before anyone sees you."

"You sure?"

Starsky just nodded.

"'Kay." Hutch smiled, affection mixing with tormented concern in his eyes. He lightly ruffled Starsky's hair and turned to go.

"Hutch," Starsky's voice held him back.

"Yeah, Buddy?"

"Tape."

"Right." Hurrying so much that his mind couldn't catch up to what he was doing, Hutch glanced around for the duct tape, found it on a shelf and tore off a strip, carefully placing it over Starsky's mouth. He ever-so-briefly leaned his forehead against Starsky's, then left.

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"That God damned bastard! Fucking little rat!"

His face turned towards his window on the passenger side, Hutch rolled his eyes. Having to listen to Brighton Dobbs' endless litany of insults wouldn't have been so bad if the man had at least more than just two on his list.

"I'm gonna kill him. I swear, I'm gonna kill him!"

Not to mention more than only one threat...

"The pig's dead! Dea-"

"Brighton," Hutch muttered. "You're loud."

Brighton didn't seem to have understood, as he stopped his ranting, but instead now yelled, "I don't believe it! I fucking don't believe it!"

Hutch sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was starting to feel a headache forming.

"D'you believe it! Of all places! A God damned toy store! What'd he think he is, funny!"

Huge headache.

"Well, I'll show him how funny I can be! That fu-"

"Brighton!" Hutch snapped. Merciful silence followed. Meeting Dobbs' startled gaze, the blond quietly ordered, "Don't yell at me; I didn't do anything."

"Sorry," Dobbs said in a small voice, then concentrated on the street again. Every so often, he'd steal a side glance at Hutch who was stoically ignoring him.

Hutch looked outside again, watching the freeway signs pass them by. Another hour. Well... given Brighton's driving, maybe two. His own mind wasn't much better than Brighton's ranting, though, as the only thought he heard over and over and over again in his head was 'Let Gerardy be there. Please let Gerardy be there.' He'd listened to that all morning, on their way to San Fran, while he'd been ignoring Brighton's excited rambling about how they'd free 'their' people once they had gotten a picture of the hiding place.

The only time his repeated inner pleading had stopped for a moment had been when he and Dobbs had stood right in front of the house, looking through the window at wooden, metallic and stuffed toys.

'Gotta tell Starsk it's still the same store. He'll be delighted.'

A sudden jerky movement next to him tore Hutch out of his thoughts, and he snapped his head to Brighton, who had just hit the steering wheel. "That sneaky little-"

Hutch rolled his eyes and moaned. Not again! "Brighton-"

"I can't believe he dared to do that!" A humorless laugh broke free. He shook his head. "A toy store, for fuck's sake!"

Hutch clenched his jaws.

"I mean, what the hell did he think we'd do! Let it pass b-"

"I doubt he thought about it!" Hutch barked, effectively shutting Brighton up. "For Christ's sake, you shocked him, Dobbs! What'd you expect!"

"Wh-what d'you mean?" Brighton asked, dumbfounded. "He didn't know what he was saying?"

"Exactly," Hutch breathed exasperatedly. "He was out of it. It's probably just the very first address that jumped to his mind."

Dobbs frowned. "D'you really think so?"

Hutch just stared at him. "I tell ya something," he said coldly after a moment's thought. "How 'bout I shock you, when we get home, and we'll see what's the first thing you come up with afterwards, hmm? Like that idea?"

With visible discomfort, Brighton smiled nervously, sliding away a tad. "Man," he mumbled, looking ahead again, "you're grumpy when you have to get up early, anyone ever told you that?"

"Just shut the fuck up and drive," Hutch growled, taking a lot of pleasure in allowing himself to snap at the other man. After all, Philip Hunter would, of course, be equally pissed about their latest discovery.

And Brighton was too much of a coward to argue.

The rest of their drive was spent in blissful silence.

'Let Gerardy be there. Please let him be there. I don't know what to do, if he's not there. Please let Ethan be there. Please.'

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Gerardy was there.

Hutch thought he'd faint from relief when he saw Ethan's car parked in front of the house.

Brighton sighed, as he pulled over next to it. "Great. Ethan's gonna be so pissed."

Hutch didn't bother answering; he opened his door before Dobbs had even turned off the engine, and was through the front door before Brighton had emerged from the car.

Gerardy sat in the kitchen, smoking. He was alone. Upon hearing the door and Hutch's hasty footsteps, he looked up.

The relieved expression on Hutch's face faded. Something was off. He had expected the agent to not be particularly pleased by the latest news, but the downright cold that shone in Gerardy's eyes was odd. The agent looked... dangerous. Like a tiger observing its prey, prepared to jump and kill.

"Hunter," Ethan greeted him quietly and moved his eyes to look at the entering Brighton Dobbs. "Brighton." He nodded his head. "So you're back. Well - wanna share information? Where did our unwanted guest send you to?"

Hutch frowned. He remained standing in the frame that held no door to the kitchen, arms folded in front of him. Watching the agent, an uneasy feeling spread inside his stomach, as if Ethan's gaze had placed a block of ice there.

"You're not gonna believe it!" Dobbs started.

"Try me," Ethan replied with a smug smile. "I heard a lot today I found hard to believe."

Hutch tilted his head to one side. Suddenly, he noticed the knuckles on Gerardy's right hand were bruised slightly. The ice-cold feeling increased.

Unaware of the tension starting to grow in the room, Dobbs laughed humorlessly, throwing his arms in the air, as he said, "A toy store! D'you believe that! A fucking toy store, that's where he sent us, that creep!"

Gerardy smiled thinly. "Cute."

Hutch looked over his shoulder as if casually. "Where're the others?"

"Outside," Ethan replied. "Fixing the Flowermobile. We'll need it tonight."

Hutch frowned. "What for?"

"To free our people." At the two confused glances focusing on him, Gerardy smiled. "Good news, boys. I found out where the Friscos are being held."

Hutch's chin dropped.

Brighton grinned. "Where?"

"You'll see," Gerardy said.

"How?" Brighton asked.

Gerardy shrugged. "D'you care? The important thing is, I did. Face it, Dobbs, this is gonna be your last night at la casa de McLean. By tomorrow morning, you'll all be off to the East coast. Along with a bunch of very happy people."

"What about the cop?" Hutch asked quietly.

Before Ethan could answer, Brighton snapped his fingers. "Right! That little-" Mumbling the rest of the insult to himself, he stormed off to the cellar door and downstairs.

Hutch was instantly behind him. "Wai-"

But Gerardy's hand on his arm stopped him when he passed the table.

"We need to talk. Detective Hutchinson."

Hutch froze. He waited, tensing in Gerardy's grip, but the other one didn't speak again, just looked at him as if expectantly.

Just as Hutch was about to break the eerie silence, Brighton could be heard climbing up the stairs again. His eyes were wide, filled with surprise - amusement, too - when he looked at Gerardy, who'd let go of Hutch again.

"Wow. Little rat give you grief, Ethan?"

Hutch's eyes snapped to Gerardy.

"I hate pigs."

The casual reply came out so utterly cold, hard, that it felt like a blow to Hutch's stomach. Quickly, the blond sat down, thinking he felt his knees buckle. "Wh-what... ?" he stammered, too quietly for Brighton to hear, who was talking over it, anyway, informing him that, "Snoop's really worked over. Can't say I'm not jealous," he quipped happily.

Gerardy returned the grin and shrugged. "I heard you had your share already."

Hutch was looking from one to the other. 'What he hell... ?'

Catching the blond's gaze, Gerardy looked directly at him, though it sounded like he was still talking to Brighton. "I'm gonna take him to the woods later to finish him off. When they find the corpse, we'll be on the other side of the country."

Brighton laughed. "Man, I don't believe we spent a day following some dumb pig's instructions when you knew where to find our guys all the time! You could've let it slip that you might find out, when you left last time, y'know?"

Gerardy didn't take his eyes off Hutch when he replied, "Letting things slip's not my style. Besides, the way I see it, Detective Starsky did fulfill a certain purpose."

Hutch's blood ran cold. "H-how..." He cleared his throat. "How d'you figure that?"

Gerardy smiled. "Fun?" he suggested.

Brighton laughed, patting Ethan's back as he walked behind him. "You're one of a kind, 'Rardy. Hey, I'm gonna tell the others about our discovery." He grinned and winked. "See ya later."

The door fell shut behind him, and instantly the tension in the room seemed to explode, drawing all the oxygen out of it. The two remaining men stared at each other.

"What did you do to him?" Hutch asked, his voice freezing.

Gerardy lifted his brows as if surprised. "Didn't you listen?"

"Why!" Hutch yelled, but pressed his lips together, when Gerardy made a mockingly hushing gesture. "What's going on here?" he asked much lower. "What're you playing?"

"My favorite game." Gerardy grinned briefly. "Now listen carefully, Detective. I want you to follow my orders tonight. Precisely. And then, I want you to arrest the Looneys. In that order."

"What're we going to do tonight?"

"Blow up a house."

Hutch's features hardened. "You..." He bit his lip, swallowing the insult. When he looked at Gerardy again, his eyes were filled with boiling fury. "You set us up, didn't you? This is all your fault. You made them find Starsky's badge, so that you could be sure I'd go along with your plan. What's that house we're going to crash, huh? An embassy? Some federal building?" He paused, then, as an afterthought, stated, "You switched sides."

"Not really," Gerardy replied and winked.

Hutch let go of a quivery breath. He was practically shaking from anger. "I don't believe it," he mumbled to himself. When he noticed he sounded like Brighton Dobbs, he snorted a sarcastic laugh, shook his head. His eyes met Gerardy's again. "I'm not gonna do it. Forget it."

Ethan lifted his brows. Folding his arms in front of him, he leaned back in his chair.

Hutch shook his head once more. "No way. No way I'll help you support some red terrorist. What are you thinking!"

"What am I thinking? Well, Detective, I'm thinking I've got you." He paused as if thinking. "I read your profile. Yours and your partner's. And I watched you. I asked Perry for you specifically, did you know that?"

Hutch clenched his jaws, listening.

"Very predictable people, the both of you." Gerardy made a small disapproving noise, pointing at the back door behind him with his head. "Kinda like them."

"We were never even in the game, were we?" Hutch asked, audibly struggling for self-control.

Ethan shrugged graciously. "Aren't we all part of somebody else's game?"

"Now that you mention it," Hutch said. "What makes you so sure I won't tell the other predictable folks all about you?"

"And blow your own cover?"

"To watch them... 'treat' an NSA agent? Any time."

Seemingly thinking about that, Gerardy reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table, pulling one out. "Wanna take me with ya, kid, huh?"

Hutch didn't answer.

Gerardy stuck the cigarette between his lips and spoke around it. "I'm not scared of dying." He reached for the lighter. "You?"

Hutch remained silent.

"Or your buddy? You see..." Lighting his cigarette, Gerardy took a deep draw and blew out the smoke before he finished the sentence. "If I die, I die alone. What about you?"

Hutch averted his gaze. He was trapped. It was easy to play mind-poker, when the stakes were just you and your well-being. But the moment you had something more precious to lose than your life, you were out.

"You didn't have to hurt him," he stated calmly. After a moment's thought, he too reached for the pack, getting himself a smoke.

Gerardy shrugged. "I like things to look the right way," he replied. "Consider it a message. Besides, I didn't want him to talk too much. So - we understand each other. Don't we?"

Hutch exhaled smoke. "I'm not letting you walk outta here with my partner." He curtly shook his head. "You can forget about that. We leave him here, comfortably, and when everything's over, I collect him."

"And where would be my insurance then?" Gerardy asked, unimpressed.

"Screw your insurance!" Hutch hissed, no longer able to hold the desperate anger at bay. "You don't ask that of me! Starsky and I went through hell to save your ass! We could've left you to face the music on your own; hell, I wanted to! He kept me from it! You owe your pathetic life to him! You're not gonna take him some place I don't know about and use him as a hostage when things get rough! I won't allow it."

"I'm touched," Ethan said mockingly. "And so, so grateful. Honest. But see - just as I said, too predictable." He tilted his head, looking up at Hutch teasingly. "Don't you think I knew I could trust you two?" He smiled.

Hutch stared at him incredulously. "Who the hell are you!"

"This game's mastermind," Gerardy joked and snuffed his cigarette. "But I have some more things to do today, as much as I'd love to stay and exchange quotable tough guy lines with you, Hutch." He looked up to grin at the blond, visibly amused by the reaction his using the nickname received. He stood, lightly snapping the pack of cigarettes over the table towards Hutch. "Keep it. You'll need them."

Startled, Hutch jumped up too. "Where're you going?"

"Collecting my hostage."

Too fast for Gerardy to react, Hutch grabbed the man's collar and shoved him against the nearest wall, pinning him there. "Didn't you listen? I won't let you walk out of here with him!"

"Let go of me," Ethan ordered calmly. "Now."

"No."

Gerardy sighed exasperatedly. It was obvious he was done playing games and seriously heading towards being pissed. "Okay, look, it's your call. You wanna try pick him up and run? Good luck getting past the Looneys carrying an unconscious guy."

"The three of us will take that walk. Nice, slowly and without raising any attention."

Gerardy just shook his head. "No, we won't."

Hutch narrowed his eyes, studying the man he held. "You're not that tough, Ethan. You won't really let me tell them about you."

Ethan didn't move, didn't blink. "Wanna give it a try?"

Moments passed. Neither of the men took his eyes off the other's. Voices could be heard growing louder outside. The 'Looneys' were coming back.

"I'm your buddy's only ticket out of here," Gerardy whispered. "Except in a coffin."

Hutch was the first to break the contact, his gaze flying from Ethan to the cellar door, to the back door and back. He tightened his grip. His voice was dripping with despair. "I won't let you take him."

"Then he'll die!" Ethan hissed. "I know you don't care about your own life, but Starsky's is in your hands too. Save him or let them kill him. Decide!"

Hutch closed his eyes. What seemed like an eternity was indeed only a split second of his mind fighting against the plain truth. And, in the end, losing that fight. He withdrew his shaking hands. His head was bowed when he stepped away from Gerardy, unable to meet the man's eyes, knowing that if he did, he might do something that would decide Starsky's fate.

"You touch him again, you're a dead man," he whispered and looked up after all. "And when this is over - you'd better run like hell."

"I have every intention of doing so," Gerardy replied. Hutch couldn't be sure, but he thought that for a split second, he'd seen honest fear rush through the other one's eyes.

Zadie burst into the room through the back door, laughing. "A toy store!" she grinned at Hutch. "If he wasn't a pig, I'd have to say I think that's cute! Totally Snoopy!" She shook her head.

"Yeah," Hutch replied coldly, glaring at her. "Aren't you crying a river, since we have to kill cute, funny little Snoop? But then," he added sarcastically, a somewhat cruel grin starting on his face, "you'll be holding the rifle, when Woodstock falls outta the sky."

Startled, Zadie stared at him. "Wow," she muttered and made a show out of letting her eyes wander over to Gerardy. "Didn't you tell him the good news, yet?"

Gerardy waved lightly. "Hunter's just in a sour mood, because he has to leave sunny California. Aren't ya, Phil?" He smiled wryly at Hutch, but didn't wait for a reaction. "McLean, why don't you and Christian go get our guest upstairs, so we can all be on the road in a few?"

"Aw, man!" McLean whined, taking the cigarette he'd just clamped between his lips out of his mouth again to speak. "Why do I have to carry the guy up and down all the time! He might not look it, but he's heavy, ya dig?"

"I could-" Hutch offered, already stepping towards the cellar door, but Gerardy held him back, grabbing his arm tightly.

"Nope, you and Brighton still need to pack your stuff. The rest is already in the Flowermobile. Or isn't it?" he asked, glancing at Zadie, who nodded eagerly.

"All packed, 'Rardy," she stated and gave a mocking salute. "Flowermobile's ready to rumble."

Hutch lifted his brows. "Oh? Well," he added, looking at Ethan again, "let's just hope we won't hit any holes in the street." He smiled slightly, challenging.

Ethan wasn't impressed. "I don't think you will," he replied calmly and with a casual motion opened the cellar door. "Mac, Chris, I don't have all night."

"Dictator," McLean mumbled, but obediently climbed down the stairs, followed by an ever-quiet Christian Gruder.

Hutch looked after them, feeling his throat tightening. If he just walked after them...

... there'd still be nothing he could do. Was Ethan armed? He hadn't even checked.

"Hunter?"

Maybe Ethan wasn't. Maybe it'd be easy. Maybe Starsky wasn't really unconscious.

''Sjust that I know to play unconscious, when I hear footsteps.' Hadn't those been Starsky's words?

"Hunter."

Maybe they could get out of this somehow. If he moved now. If he decided to go for it right now. If he just moved. Maybe...

"Hunter!"

Hutch's eyes snapped to Gerardy, startled.

"Go pack your stuff," Ethan ordered calmly.

Hutch suddenly noticed Brighton had left already, probably to do just that.

The blond detective hesitated, eyes wandering to the cellar door. He could hear footsteps approaching. 'Starsk...'

"Philip." Gerardy's voice. Low.

Hutch looked at him, despair arching his brows. He couldn't do this. He couldn't turn away. Couldn't leave. He drew in a shaky breath.

"Ethan..." It was whispered more than mumbled. Zadie, who stood behind Gerardy making coffee, didn't even hear it.

But Ethan did. "Go upstairs. Now." With the slightest movement, he brushed the jacket he wore aside, revealing a gun tucked into his belt.

Hutch stared at it, unaware that he was holding his breath. He didn't move an inch. 'Starsky...'

Gerardy drew the gun, smiling at Hutch's flinching. Once more, their eyes met.

Ethan shrugged, pretending to check his gun. To see if it was loaded.

Hutch watched.

'Save him or have them kill him. Decide!'

Decide... Could he decide to go with the risk?

'Save him or...'

Nothing could come after the 'or'. Save him. Nothing could be the alternative to saving Starsky's life. Hutch knew that.

"'Ey!" McLean's voice broke through the silence. "Someone get this fucking door, please!"

Before Hutch could even move, snapping out of a trance-like state, Gerardy grabbed the cellar door to drag it fully opened.

"Thanks," McLean panted sarcastically, as he stepped up into the kitchen, working on maneuvering his and Christian's burden through the door.

Only the sudden ache in his chest told Hutch he still hadn't let go of the breath he'd been holding. So he did.

It came out as a sigh, and Gerardy heard. Quickly, he took up a position between the group of three and Hutch, partially shielding Starsky from the blond's view.

"Get him into my car," he ordered, his fingers tightening around his gun. "I'll be right there."

"Aye, sir," McLean muttered. He and Christian left, more dragging than actually carrying the unconscious man through the door Zadie held open. She whistled quietly, shaking her head, bemused, at the drops of blood that now shone on the kitchen floor.

Hutch hadn't heard or seen any reaction coming from his partner.

"Will you please go and pack your God damned stuff now, Hunter?" Gerardy growled. For emphasis, he slightly waved his gun, before he put it back into his belt.

Icy blue eyes found his, and after a long, silent moment, Hutch moved, stepping towards Gerardy at first, slightly bumping into the man, before he turned around him to then walk towards the stairs. "I'll get ya for this," he whispered, as his shoulder touched Ethan's. "You'll be sorry."

He didn't look back when he heard the kitchen door slam shut, but walked on into his room, where he closed the door, leaning his forehead against it.

Moments passed. Hutch didn't move.

'C'mon, Hutch. Get a grip. This isn't helping. Just think about all the stuff Starsky'll make you do to make up for this. Wash his car. Buy crap-made-lunch for the next twenty years. Do all the paperwork. No more camping trips ever again. Just think of that. You'll never hear the end of this. Never. You'll see. In a month, it'll get on your nerves. All this '... remember the time ya let me down!'-kinda talk. It's gonna annoy the hell outta you. Better believe it will.'

But the truth was, he just prayed it would.

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Why was the cellar moving?

And who the hell was doing all this loud moaning that echoed in his ears!

Starsky strained to listen.

'Oh. Right. I am.'

Well, since that was settled, he allowed yet another groan to escape and finally blinked his eyes open.

Now, that was effective! He sighed. Darkness surrounded him. Moving darkness, he corrected himself, when yet another sudden shaking motion threw him head first against something. A wall? Whatever it was, it provided a connection hard enough for stars to have exploded before his eyes; he squeezed them shut briefly, struggling to hold onto consciousness.

He tried to gasp at the pain that flooded freely through his head, but his mouth was forced shut, and so the air left through his nose. Damn, that hurt! He sniffled, smelling blood. Could feel it stick to his skin under his nose, around his mouth. His left eye hurt, wouldn't open fully.

But even if it had, all that would have resulted from that would've been a better view of the darkness. Moving darkness. Where the hell was he!

He tried to cough a bit, but, again, it didn't help much, and now he slowly remembered that he was gagged. Unnerved, he brought his right hand up - instinct more than memory told him to not use his left - and peeled the annoying tape off of his mouth. There! Better. Finally, he could cough and carefully probe at the corners of his mouth with his tongue, taste the dried blood there.

To his relief, the coughing didn't bring up any fresh blood, though it hurt, sharply cutting off his relief about being able to do it. His ribs and chest especially protested against any straining motions, and when he tried to curl up to ease the sudden, stabbing pain in his sides, he found he couldn't. His knees would meet the wall his head had connected with. Not only was the cellar moving, it had also shrunk.

And, come to think of it, hadn't he been tied up in the cellar? Puzzled, he lifted his hand again, this time to have it touch a ceiling he could sense mere inches above his head. A crushing wave of claustrophobia hit him; his breath quickened. What was this!

For the briefest, most agonizing moment, he believed his new surroundings to be a coffin. Panicking, he unwisely scratched his left hand over the ceiling too, as if trying to dig himself out, but the instant his injured digits brushed against the concrete material, he stopped, swallowing a whimper.

'Note to self: left hand's out of order!'

But somehow the pain woke up memories of itself, memories that stirred others. Hutch holding his hand, gently, carefully... apologizing. 'Aw, c'mon, Blintz, don't look like that. You know 'snot your fault.'

But... wait...

Starsky frowned, blinking at the ceiling, suddenly seeing it was brown. Not so dark after all.

Hutch had left again, hurriedly. 'Hutch. Tape.' Had brought him pain pills. But he hurt now. A lot.

Squinting his eyes, as if trying to see through the fog that clouded his fuddled mind, Starsky shook his head curtly to clear it, stirring yet another wave of dimming pain. Grayish light appeared in front of his eyes, blurry, engulfing. Startled, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the light was still there, clear now, softer. Not everywhere anymore, but only a long slit, right in front of his nose. It, too, seemed to move, widening slightly every few seconds. And it was loud.

A rattling light.

Starsky frowned. He lay on his back now, his body having decided to at least move somewhere, if curling up was out of the question. He looked at the ceiling, moving his head on an aching, tense neck, then to the light again.

All of a sudden, the truth came to him. Out of nowhere, like the memory of a name you'd forgotten for a long time. A trunk. He was in the trunk of a driving car.

Another thought hit him: 'Ethan.'

Ethan Gerardy had come to see him, some time after Hutch had left and he'd fallen asleep again, still blissfully under the influence of the Vicodin.

At first, Starsky had been relieved to see the agent, had even greeted him with a muffled mumble against the tape. But Gerardy had never answered to that. Hadn't spoken at all. All he had done, in silence, had been to very thoroughly beat the living daylights out of the bound detective, starting with his face, then his chest. The kicks to his sides, responsible for the pain flaring through his sides whenever he moved, Starsky hadn't even felt. At least not consciously.

Focusing on the slit of light, the brunet tried to put his thoughts in order. What did he know?

Well, first of all: Ethan Gerardy was not on his side.

Second: Ethan Gerardy was therefore not on Hutch's side, either.

Third: Starsky was in a moving car, in the trunk, and it wasn't the Flowermobile.

Forth: the trunk wasn't fully closed.

The slit of light he'd been watching growing and shrinking in height was the unlatched trunk, bouncing lightly up and down as the car drove on. For some reason, Starsky doubted that had been intentional. It was the same instinct that told him he was in Gerardy's car. After all, the man must have had a reason to lash out at him like he had, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that said reason had most likely been to impress Hutch.

Which, Starsky thought grimly - if he looked anything like he felt - it probably had.

So Gerardy was following some plan he needed a hostage for, an insurance.

Now, Hutch had said something about offering to shoot 'Snoop' out in the woods, in case Ethan didn't show, so they could get out of Camp California. But... Hutch wouldn't stuff him into a trunk and not let him out the second they were out of sight. Not to mention - why would Gerardy allow Hutch to take his partner away when he wasn't on their side?

His mind still running through explanations, like a computer program searching through saved possibilities, Starsky slid closer to the slit, gritting his teeth against his body's protests, and narrowed his eyes to look outside. The sun was setting, but it was cloudy, the sky a milky gray instead of the usual Californian blue. He could see buildings rushing by, streetlamps, other cars.

This wasn't the woods, this was a city. His city, he suddenly realized, when they passed - of all buildings - Venice Place! Out of reflex, Starsky grabbed the edge of the opening, pressing his face closer, gazing back at Hutch's place as it vanished behind a corner. Fighting a sudden wave of irrational sadness, the kind a kid would feel passing a former house the family had moved out of, he clenched his jaws, suppressing a groan, as he carefully rolled onto his side, so that he was now facing the slit.

He might not know what exactly had happened while he'd been out, but he knew for sure there was no way Hutch would drive around in Bay City with him in the trunk.

Or... Starsky hesitated. Could Gerardy be forcing Hutch to do so? Had he kidnapped them both? But what sense would be in that? Ethan needed Hutch for something, needed him to follow his orders. What better way of assuring that than to take his partner?

'Think, Dave. What would you do if it was the other way around?'

Easy. Follow Ethan's orders.

But what could Gerardy possibly want? Why this charade? Why specifically ask for cover cops and then...

Starsky froze.

'... then use them to bust the Looneys after they've done the dirty work. That's why!'

He let go of an angry breath, feeling his good hand forming into a fist. 'That bastard! Frisco guys, my ass! I bet he wants them to blow up an embassy. Or a federal building. Something like that. And then Hutch will arrest them after they succeeded, and why! - Because he has no choice!'

He sighed deeply, placing his right hand up against the ceiling in a futile attempt at expressing his frustration.

"Damn, what a mess, Partner," he muttered under his breath, his heart breaking for his far-away friend. If the roles were reserved - he'd blow up his apartment, if it would keep Hutch alive. His favorite taco stand. Metro. The Statue of Liberty.

And he could only imagine the hell Hutch must have gone through to let Gerardy leave with his hostage; to leave both their fates in the hands of a man who had betrayed them. Who was most likely a terrorist.

'Aw, Hutch...' Grimacing, Starsky sighed again, guilt washing through him. 'I'm sorry, Pal.'

It was all his fault - if he hadn't insisted on staying, hadn't kept Hutch from getting them out, none of this would've happened. Gerardy's plan wouldn't have worked out, he wouldn't be in a God damned trunk right now, and Hutch wouldn't be... wherever he was.

'Great job, Detective,' Starsky chided himself, the anger mixing with fear for his partner, making him almost forget about the pain. 'Saving the bad guy's ass. T'riffic!'

He was still silently ranting, switching from accusing himself, then Ethan and then himself again, when the car stopped, with the engine still running. A red light.

Taking the opportunity, Starsky lifted the trunk lid the tiniest tad and peeked outside. He knew the street. They were still in Hutch's neighborhood. It had been under construction for months, driving the blond crazy, since he constantly forgot about it and ended up in traffic jams on his way to pick up Starsky for work.

Widely marked holes in the asphalt slowed the traffic down, and Starsky could see the car had stopped right next to one. Orange lights blinked on and off in the settling dusk.

To the detective's disappointment, there were no cars behind them, the pavement was equally deserted. No one to whom he could've signaled for help. His frantically searching eyes found the hole again. Absurdly enough, he shot the wall behind himself a glance. As if he could see Gerardy behind the wheel.

He swallowed dryly. 'Just don't think about it. Do it.'

Ever so carefully, he pressed his right hand against the lid, pushing it slightly more open. The moment he lifted his upper body just an inch, abused ribs, muscles - everything - screamed at him to not 'just do it', please!

But who was he to listen to muscles! Sensing the car slowly starting off again, added gas sending tiny tremors through the vehicle, he prepared to push himself out with both hands.

The engine roared.

'Now or never. C'mon. You can do it.'

Squeezing his eyes shut, afraid of the pain he knew this was going to cause, he kicked the trunk half-way open with one foot, making sure it would snap back down, and in the split second it stayed up, he pushed himself out of the trunk, onto the street. Not allowing his body to even register the blow or the resulting pain, he blindly crawled forward.

'Get away! Get away! Get a-'

"Aaahhh!"

Suddenly, he was falling.

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There was a small noise from behind. Like a door falling shut in the distance.

Startled, Ethan Gerardy glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing but the damned construction hole in the street. Frowning, a sudden uneasy feeling creeping up inside his stomach, he fully turned to shoot a brief glance over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see there, either. Just an empty back seat.

Weird.

'Hearing ghosts now, old boy?' he teased himself ironically, as he turned around again, facing the darkening streets. God knew there were enough ghosts from all his lives he could've heard.

Absently, he turned the radio on and started humming along to Sinatra's 'Too Close for Comfort'.

Man, if nothing else, he'd surely miss American music!

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"Okay, fine, have it your way, Dobbs, but I'm telling ya, that street has been under construction for months now!"

"And how would you know, Zade? Last time you left the house was-"

"Yesterday."

Behind the wheel, Brighton rolled his eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Miss Mayor, but you went to San Francisco then, not Bay City."

Next to him, in the passenger seat, Zadie rolled her eyes. "I know which city I'm in, when I'm in it, Egghead!" she snapped. "But if you'd rather spend the night in traffic..." She waved a wide, 'whatever' gesture.

Brighton sighed, annoyed. "Okay," he said, irritated, "though it is statistically proven that women get lost fifty percent more often than men, we'll take-"

"Aw, shove it, Asshole," Zadie muttered, turned her head to stare outside.

The argument was over. However, Brighton still turned left, where he'd planned to go right, and the fully-packed Flowermobile passed the street to Venice Place.

From where he sat next to McLean on the back seat, Hutch looked after it, something inside of him squeezing tightly. 'Home...'

The whole drive to Bay City, Zadie and Brighton had fought on and off, about the fastest routes, the speed limit ('That'd be just great, Dobbs. Have a cop stop us now!' Zadie had snorted sarcastically when Dobbs had panicked at seeing a patrol car parked on the side of the road.) their destination, the future, the weather, where to make room for the freed prisoners, and police regulations that made it possible for people who had been arrested in San Fran to be secretly hidden in another city.

All the time, Hutch, McLean and Christian had listened in silence, sitting more or less cramped next to each other and all the stuff that had been unceremoniously stuffed inside the car, Christian and Hutch passively inhaling the smoke of McLean's ever present joint, while the smoker himself tapped his left foot to the rhythm of some Bob Dylan tape that had started along with the car.

Through his mind's desperate search for a way out, Hutch every now and then absently wondered if the box McLean so eagerly drummed with his booted foot contained any sensitive explosives, like some of their other luggage. But then, maybe he didn't want to know.

Dusk had long ago faded into black, illuminated dimly by the city lights, and, watching the familiar neon lights passing by, Hutch felt himself unpleasantly reminded of family vacations. Long rides in the stuffy family car, squeezed in between tons of luggage and his little sister, who'd always fall asleep the instant the engine was started and sprawl on her side, shoving the suitcases, bags, coats and stuffed animals over into his space, until he'd sat huddled against his window, listening to his parents' endless fights. He would sit in frightened silence, trying to keep from adding water to the icy-cold debates going on in the front seats, and watch the streets and lights pass by over his own reflection in the window.

"Hey, Hunter?" Zadie's voice tore Hutch out of a sudden déjà-vu.

He blinked, startled, and gazed ahead into the rearview mirror, where he could only see Brighton's eyes, though, since he sat behind her.

"Yeah?"

"Find the key?"

She was talking about the key to the cabin Topher and Pixie had spent the last days in, more or less isolated, except for Pixie's rare visits to the kitchen on her search for food, beer or cigarettes. Ever since she had found Starsky's badge - not in the tent, as Hutch had discovered, when talking to her before their departure, but on the porch of the cabin - she hadn't come inside the house anymore.

The plan had been to leave Topher and his girlfriend-made-nurse behind, locked into the cabin, and later let the police know where to find them by an anonymous call.

Hutch had volunteered to check on the two, before the rest of them left, and then throw the key away. Arms loaded with supplies, he had stopped by the cabin on his way to the Flowermobile.

From Starsky's reports, Hutch had had a vague idea of how serious Topher's condition had become, but nothing could have prepared him for actually seeing the formerly energetic, dangerously unpredictable, strong man huddled up on his cot in one corner of the small main room, hiding his face in his hands as he turned away from the blond intruder, whimpering incoherently in telltale fright.

Starsky had been right; Topher had needed psychological help right after his first breakdown, and the captivity the group had forced upon him had only succeeded in worsening his state. Hutch could see the clear signs of severe flashbacks all over Topher's face, as well as in Pixie's tired eyes.

Yet - he couldn't trust the girl, who Gerardy had picked to discover Starsky's badge. If Hutch had learned one thing about Ethan Gerardy, it was that he didn't leave things to chance. So Hutch had settled for asking Pixie where exactly she had found the cop's badge - a casual question, just curious small talk - and after mere minutes had left, but not without secretly shoving the key back inside the cabin under the door he had quietly locked before.

'Told ya I wouldn't forget Topher, Buddy.'

"Yeah, sure," he replied to Zadie's question. "Found it alright. Threw it downhill, towards the beach."

"'Kay," Zadie nodded. She seemed to not have been interested in the answer, anyway. Had just wanted to talk to someone other than Brighton. "How did Topher look?" she asked after a moment.

This time, Hutch bent forward slightly, so he could talk closer to her ear. "Do you really wanna know, Princess?" he asked.

She frowned, but he'd seen her flinch. As if disgusted, she slid away, closer to her window, and snorted. "What the fuck's your problem, man! You've been acting weird all day!" She paused, until she sensed him leaning back, then glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze softened, became almost gentle. "Nervous because of the cop?"

Hutch shrugged. "Why would I be? It's Gerardy's problem now."

"I thought you said we'd all get it."

"Only if Gerardy talks," Hutch said calmly.

Silence followed. Zadie turned her head again.

"But," Hutch added into the stillness, "we trust him." Appearing to be looking outside, he studied Zadie's reflection in her window. "Don't we?"

"We're here," Brighton exclaimed excitedly, partially talking over Hutch's question, not having heard it in the first place. He pulled over sharply in front of a huge fence and looked over through Zadie's window at a building across the street. Only one of the two street lamps in front of it was working, and only two windows showed dim light behind the glass. There were no guards patrolling in front of it, no passersby at this time of night in this part of the city.

Hutch frowned. He knew that house.

Zadie looked at Dobbs. "Are you sure you've the right address?" she asked. "This looks deserted."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Brighton replied. He bent over a bit to get a better look through her window.

"Hmm," Zadie muttered, following his gaze. She didn't sound convinced. "Doesn't look at all like a police building."

"I think that's the point," Brighton said.

Yet, the point was it was. Hit by the sudden recognition, Hutch felt his chin drop and quickly readjusted his jaws. It was a police building! Or at least parts of it was. Among a bunch of rented offices, there were a handful of rooms the force used for witness protection every now and then. It was one of those places BCPD would rent for just a few months and then leave again, making sure the word didn't make it onto the street fast enough.

It was only by mere coincidence that Hutch even knew about this one. A friend of his and Starsky's on the narcotics squad had just recently been hiding a witness there; they had collected him and delivered him to the court as a favor.

Whoever was in it now, though, Hutch didn't know. He wondered if Gerardy had anticipated his recognizing the building, but figured he probably hadn't, since his inside knowledge enabled him to know exactly where the rooms meant for destruction were.

A faint flicker of hope started to grow inside him. If he was careful - and fast - he could save whoever it was Gerardy felt necessary to eliminate, without Ethan noticing. The bust could still go down, then.

He'd find Starsky, before Ethan would notice his plan had failed. And something told Hutch that then the undercover agent would be in trouble. After all, there were only so many reasons for wanting to get rid of a witness...

"Ethan's late," Brighton stated, checking his watch.

Zadie shrugged. "Maybe he took the blocked street. How about we unload?"

"What, here?" Brighton asked. "No, we should wait for Ethan to show," he decided, sounding decidedly nervous. "He'll tell us where to put the stuff."

"'Kay," Zadie replied, annoyed, "fine. But I need fresh air." And with that, she opened her door and emerged from the car.

Christian and Hutch followed her example, grateful to get out of the cloudy back. McLean remained where he was. He appeared to have nodded off.

"Ciggie, anyone?" Zadie asked, holding out the pack she herself had just taken one from.

Christian shook his head lightly.

Hutch smiled his thanks and took one.

"I don't like this," Zadie stated after some time of standing and smoking in silence. She was studying the building across from them, her free arm wrapped around her middle as if it provided some form of protection.

Hutch had never seen her this nervous. 'Feels different than staring at a school all day, doesn't it, lady?'

"It doesn't look like a police place," she added and blew out smoke.

Hutch shrugged casually. "Dobbs is right, Zade. That's probably the point."

"But why are there no guards?" she asked.

"Maybe because then it'd look like a police place," Christian muttered ever so quietly.

Hutch grinned and nodded curtly at him.

Zadie rolled her eyes. She was about to snap at them when a car appeared behind a nearby corner. Its lights were turned off.

Hutch tensed.

"Ethan," Zadie said unnecessarily.

Brighton must have seen him too, as he emerged from the Flowermobile, leaving the driver's door halfway open. Approaching Zadie, Hutch and Christian, he folded his arms in front of him, gazing in the direction of the car which was now pulling over behind the larger vehicle.

Gerardy looked off, Hutch thought. He couldn't point his finger at it, but something in the way the agent's gaze flickered to him for the briefest moment, almost fearfully, nervous, made him frown.

Yet, it only lasted a split second, then Ethan turned to Brighton and Zadie. He, too, had been smoking and now snuffed his cigarette butt with his foot. "Hello boys and girl," he greeted them jokingly. "Welcome to your first night mission." He grinned encouragingly.

"Say 'we're counting on you, kids,' and I'm outta here," McLean, who was still sitting in the back seat of the Flowermobile, but had opened the door to participate in the conversation, muttered.

Gerardy smiled.

Zadie laughed quietly.

"If I counted on you, Mac, I'd be a fool," Gerardy answered, earning an amused snort. "But here's the plan," the agent continued, serious now. "Brighton, Hunter, Christian - you'll get the stuff into the first floor. Back door's open; I took care of that. Zadie, Mac and I will meet you at the front door. Set the clocks to five minutes. That should be enough time for us to storm in, get our people and get the hell outta there again. Never forget the whole house is ticking," he added, looking from one to the other. "Okay? Five minutes can be a long time - and a short one. When you hear me yell, you run like hell. Got that?"

"We're going to blow up the whole thing?" Zadie asked.

"Yes," came the curt answer. "Any more questions?" Gerardy's tone made it clear that a 'yes' wouldn't be appropriate, and so it was silence that followed.

Hutch went through the plan in his mind, inwardly shaking his head at Gerardy's incredible arrogance. Five minutes! True, that could be a long time, but not for three people to run through a whole building, meet the others, storm inside and get outside again. No doubt Ethan would appear so surprised at their not having any time left after they'd begun to storm inside...

Absently exhaling the last draw of his cigarette, Hutch tried to estimate the time it would take him to reach the rooms used by the force and warn the people there. They were on the second floor, as he recalled, which wouldn't be too much of a sprint, and he could tell Brighton and Christian to go without him without raising any suspicion - could pretend to have heard something upstairs or something. The question was: how fast would his colleagues on second floor react? Given their task - to watch over a witness - they'd be highly distrusting, even at the sight of a badge. The worst case scenario, Hutch figured, could be them deciding to call someone first and check on a Detective Ken Hutchinson, while Gerardy pushed the button outside the building...

Hutch snapped the cigarette butt away into the darkness. "So let's move, huh?" After all - did he have a choice?

Gerardy's eyes met his for a moment.

Once more, Hutch thought he saw something odd reflected in the agent's gaze. He looked away. Ethan couldn't possibly know that he knew about the house, could he? Maybe he just anticipated Hutch's struggle to come up with a plan.

'Yeah,' Hutch decided, when he sensed Gerardy turn his attention away from him. 'Must be it.' After all, he probably wasn't the first cop Gerardy had ever had to deal with. Who knew, maybe the agent had learned to be aware of most cops' tendency to try and protect probable victims of crimes.

Being the unofficial chief of organization, Zadie took over handing out the guns before she ordered MacLean and Christian to unload the explosives.

Hutch checked the gun that'd been unceremoniously shoved into his hand, feeling yet another stream of hope dig its way through his arm up into his mind. It felt good to be armed again. Funny, whenever that thought hit him, he despised it, his innermost instinct always being to not trust weapons, the false security they could fool you with, too much, but then, sometimes it just did feel better to be aware of any false security than none.

Besides - as Starsky had once pointed out, when he had heard Hutch comment on not liking always having to be so linked to his gun - a scalpel was a weapon first too. "Things get personality through their owner. It's about what you use it for."

Back then, Hutch had just rolled his eyes. "'Personality', Gordo? And why is it then that doctors don't name their scalpels?" To which Starsky had wanted to reply with sharing an anecdote about his cousin Melvin, who was a doctor up in Maine, and who... But Hutch had cut him off.

As he now tucked the gun into his belt under the jacket he wore, Hutch made a mental note to ask Starsky about his cousin Melvin, when this was over. 'Wonder what kinda name you give a scalpel.'

"Gentlemen. Lady." Gerardy looked from one to the other. He was carrying a wooden box, as well as McLean. Hutch and Christian had been handed heavy knapsacks. Brighton would only be burdened once the group was to split at the front door. "Let's go."

It was a short, rushed walk across the street and up two wide, low set steps, where McLean and Gerardy lowered the boxes. Christian followed their example. Hutch cast him a puzzled frown, but focused on Gerardy, who appeared to say some last encouraging words.

Suddenly, the door burst open in front of them, sending McLean stumbling down the steps. He fell onto his back, lay were he landed with his hands in the air, as a whole bunch of uniformed figures stormed outside into the small group, taking aim at everyone.

Hutch, who had been looking at Gerardy when the attack had started, whirled around, chin dropping, when he heard Christian Gruder's voice behind him. "FBI! Don't move!"

With eyes widening to their largest possible dimensions, Hutch stared at Christian, who suddenly seemed to have transformed into a completely different man. All shy anxiety, all nervousness had vanished from a face that was now marked by determination. His hands, holding the gun that was pointed directly at Ethan Gerardy, didn't shake at all.

"Agent Bosworth, you are under arrest for treason, murder one in at least four cases, drug dealing, illegal possession of arms-"

It sounded like the list of verdicts wasn't going to end any time in the near future, and - given the obvious fun Christian was having while informing his suspect of the charges - it probably would have gone on for some time. That is, if it hadn't been for Brighton Dobbs snapping his head to the man he had known as Ethan Gerardy for months now, and with all understandable fury repeat, "Agent!"

Christian stopped. "Surprised, Bright-" he started smugly, but, once more, Brighton cut him off. Hadn't even listened.

"You bastard!" he yelled at Gerardy and lifted the gun he had drawn when the federal agents flooded the entry.

It happened so fast, Hutch couldn't even really remember it later. All he knew was that he saw Dobbs take aim at Gerardy - and jumped. "No!"

Hearing the shot, Hutch felt his body crash into Gerardy's, tearing them both to the ground. Only then did he feel the pain, sharp, in his left shoulder. With a groan, he rolled off of the totally stunned Ethan and felt himself being grabbed by rough hands that dragged him to his feet.

"W-wait," he panted, squeezing his eyes briefly shut against the intensifying agony that now ran freely through his left arm, where he felt blood starting to glue his sleeve to his skin. "I'm... I'm a cop. He knows... where... my partner is."

He pointed his chin at Gerardy - Bosworth - who still lay on the ground, some federal agent's aimed gun keeping him from getting up. Another one had disarmed Brighton and held his arm in a tight grip.

"Let go of me, I'll show you my badge," Hutch added.

At the briefest nod from Christian, the two agents withdrew their hands.

Hutch winced when the pressure was lifted off of his wounded arm, and he struggled to produce his badge.

"I don't believe it," Brighton muttered.

He stared at Hutch with his mouth hanging open. Zadie clenched her jaws.

"Man," McLean said. He was still on the ground, supporting himself on his elbows. A small blueish bruise was forming on his face, where the door had hit him. "You're a cop too? And you're," he looked at Christian, "an FBI agent? And you..." His gaze wandered to Gerardy. "What were you again?"

"National Security Agency," Christian explained, the self-confidence in his voice so foreign a sound to Hutch's ears it seemed as though he had never heard the man talk before. "His real name is Roland Bosworth." A smile crossed his lips when he crossed the space to where Bosworth lay and looked down at him. "And I've been waiting for this moment for a long, long time. Get him up," he added casually to his colleagues, who dragged Bosworth to his feet.

One hand firmly clamped over his bleeding arm, Hutch looked after Christian. "And who're you?" Something was digging through the spreading pain in his momentarily fogged mind, and he thought he heard sirens in the distance. He curtly shook his head.

Christian turned to the blond. "Special agent Christian Watterston." He grinned. "I thought you were a cop, Detective... ?"

"Hutchinson," Hutch helped. To his right, he heard Zadie snort in telltale fury.

"Hutchinson," Christian nodded. "Now, what was that about your partner?" At the mention of Starsky, the fog in Hutch's head cleared. The thought that had been struggling to get through hit him with full force. Anger blazed in his eyes. He fought to stay calm as he approached Christian.

"You were after," he pointed at Bosworth, "him all the time?" he asked, ignoring the special agent's earlier question.

Christian nodded. "Yeah, he-"

"And you arranged - this?" Hutch interrupted him, making a small gesture that included the busy arrest scene.

Christian frowned. "Yes, but I don't see wh-"

"So you were able to contact the outside world," Hutch figured.

"Well, I could-"

"And you didn't help my partner, when you had the chance!" Hutch snapped, the fury finally burning in his eyes. "You just let those..." He glared at Brighton and Zadie, "freaks-"

"Hey!" they both protested in unison.

Hutch ignored them. He was too focused on a slightly-retreating Christian Watterston. "...torture and almost kill a cop! What're you, insane!"

"Whoa, Detective, hold your horses," Christian replied, lifting his hands. "Just for the record: I didn't see you jumping in for the rescue back there, now, did I?"

Hutch just stared at him, then, after a long time, blinked, averted his eyes. "Did you know Ger... Bosworth had asked his boss to assign my partner and me to the case, so we would arrest the Looneys today?"

"The what!" Brighton snapped.

Christian furrowed his brows. He looked at Bosworth, then back at Hutch. "He did?"

Hutch drew in a deep breath. "Star... My partner was down in that cellar for a whole night. Did you just once go see him? Tell him the truth? Reassure him?"

"I-"

"Where were you, when... Yesterday. When you disappeared," Hutch continued to ask.

Christian snorted a nervous laugh. "I'm... I don't have to-"

"Answer me."

"I was calling in a report."

"Bastard!" Brighton exclaimed.

Hutch ignored him. He was looking directly at Christian, his features strained from barely-suppressed fury. "Did you tell your superior about Starsky?"

There was a very long silence. Christian averted his gaze.

Finally, Hutch rubbed a hand over his face and studied the agent again. "You knew they'd order you to pull the plug and get the cop outta there, if you told them. Didn't you? You wanted this bust so badly that..." Trailing off, Hutch clenched his jaws. When he spoke again, his voice was low with loathing. "You're worse than he is, Special Agent Watterston. You'd have let my partner die for this bust."

"I was-"

"You," Hutch snapped, "didn't even know about me! Or that Ethan knew about us, for that matter! You would've let him leave to kill a cop!"

Christian closed his eyes for an annoyed breath. He was becoming visibly irritated at being constantly interrupted. "I didn't think he-"

"Now, that's something I don't find hard to believe," Hutch remarked. "In fact, if you had thought and still acted the same way - I fear I'd have to hurt you now."

The sounds of approaching sirens Hutch had previously heard grew louder now, almost drowning out Christian's angry answer. "You and your reckless pal almost ruined the whole operation, Detective! Instead of throwing accusations, you should be grateful that I'm not filing a complaint against ya! Besides," he added with a smug grin starting on his face, "contrary to you, I didn't intentionally hurt him."

It wasn't easy to irritate Hutch to the point, where he'd lose his cool and surrender to instinct, so the fact that Christian Watterston managed to do so with just one sentence could be seen as pretty impressive.

Returning the smile with a dangerous, wry one, Hutch took a step closer to the agent, looking like he was about to say something in response. He opened his mouth, then seemed to stop to think, and closed it again.

Watching him most unsuspectingly, Christian was too slow to react when Hutch suddenly punched him in the face, almost losing his own balance. But just almost. "Actually, you did," he growled, shaking his hand, as he stood over the agent's crumpled form. "And that's for spraining my buddy's thumb."

Swaying slightly, he then turned abruptly, marching over to Bosworth.

Wisely, the federal agents didn't even try to interfere when Hutch grabbed the man's collar, shoving him against the nearest wall. "Where is he?"

"Listen..." came the stammered reply, difficult to hear over the extremely loud sirens of the handful of squad cars pulling up to the scene. "Th-there's something you should-"

"So help me, Eth... whatever the hell your name is, you tell me where Starsky is right now, or-"

"Hutch!"

Never letting go of Bosworth, Hutch turned his head in time to see Starsky emerge from one of the parked police cars, along with a rather unnerved-looking uniformed officer. A bunch of officers and uniforms left their cars now, Dobey among them.

Hutch stared, dumbfounded. "Wh-what're you doing here? Where'd you come from?"

"Your place," Starsky replied with an ironic grin. He seemed to have a hard time trusting his ability to walk over to his friend and leave the support of the car he leaned against. Even from a distance, Hutch could see him shiver as if extremely cold, and his hair lay half-plastered to his forehead, as if he'd recently gotten soaking wet.

Apart from that, Starsky looked the same mess he had the last time Hutch had seen him - bloody, battered, bruised and too pale.

"My place?" Hutch repeated, looking at Bosworth again, though he was still talking to Starsky. The truth dawned on him before either one could speak. "He got away!"

Clearing his throat against the tight hold his neck was in, Bosworth smiled wryly. He gave the tiniest shrug. "He doesn't call you Smartie Smurf for nothing, Kid."

It was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time. Without any indication or hint, Hutch let go of Bosworth, stepped back and hit him square in the face. The agent crashed to the ground, and this time Hutch lost his balance for real. Fortunately, he landed on his good side.

"Hutch."

Blinking his eyes open - Funny, he hadn't even noticed he'd closed them, and what was he doing on the ground? - Hutch found himself looking at Starsky's half-worried, half-amused face.

"Easy, 'sjust me," the brunet joked, but couldn't hide his concern at the sight of the half-dried blood on Hutch's arm. "What happened to you?"

Before Hutch even had time to answer, Dobey's impressive voice could be heard nearby, as the Captain marched onto the scene. "Hutchinson!"

"Hey, Cap'n," Hutch greeted him and struggled into a sitting position.

Next to him, Starsky had surrendered to the need to sit down, discreetly leaning partially against Hutch's back for support.

"Will you stop punching people!" Dobey barked, annoyed.

Letting his eyes wander from a very pissed-looking Christian Watterston, pretending to be busy giving orders to his men, over to the still-downed Agent Bosworth, Hutch focused on Brighton Dobbs for a moment, before answering, "For now."

Brighton paled and looked around, as if for help. "H-he just threatened me. Hello? I've just been threatened by a police officer, I want that notifi-"

At some growled advice from a nearby uniform, he hushed himself, avoiding Hutch's gaze.

Against his uninjured shoulder, Hutch could feel Starsky snicker. "Don't bunker all the fun, Blintz. What's about Christian, anyway?"

"He's a fed," Hutch replied absently. He was trying to readjust his position to get a better look at his friend, without shaking him too much. "Starsk, what're you doing here? You should be in the hospital."

"Needed... find you," Starsky mumbled sleepily. It seemed that now that they were both safe, whatever adrenalin rush had kept him going was running out fast. "Before you do somethin' stupid," he added.

Hutch smiled softly. "Thanks, Buddy." He lightly patted his friend's shoulder, but frowned when he found that Starsky's skin was ice cold, noticeable even through the material of the shirt.

Gently, he started to rub Starsky's upper arm. "D'you fall into the ocean or something?"

"Sewer," Starsky corrected.

"Sew..." The lights went on. "In that street behind my place? The one that's under construction?"

Something unintelligible came out, muffled by the material of Hutch's sleeve. He could feel Starsky's weight growing heavier against him. "What?"

With a groan, as if annoyed at having to move, Starsky lifted his head a tad to repeat, "Don't call ya Smarty Smurf for nothin'."

Hutch rolled his eyes with a soft chuckle. "Right." Before he could say anything more, Dobey's voice cut him off, and, blinking up, Hutch could see his superior hovering over them.

"Ambulance will be here in a sec." He shook his head. "What a mess you two managed to get into again. Starsky, what happened to you? Why didn't you say you needed a doctor, when you called!"

"Needed to get here first," Starsky replied. He didn't open his eyes. "But 'sokay now. Ambulance sounds nice."

"Where's that uni who picked you up at Hutch's?" Dobey continued his grumbling, seemingly not having listened, and looked around.

"Cap'n," Hutch said calmingly. "Let it be. We're okay now." As if for emphasis, he shifted his position a bit to sit up straighter against Starsky, but winced when his wounded shoulder screamed in protest.

"I can see that," Dobey sighed. "How'd you get hurt?"

"Saving a traitor," Christian Watterston's cold voice suddenly appeared behind Dobey.

The Captain turned to the young man.

A large bruise was forming around Watterston's left eye and cheekbone. He shot the seated detectives a hateful scowl before looking at Dobey again. "Detective Hutchinson seems to have been under the impression he was saving the day. Anyway - may I ask why it is that my scene is being flooded by your people, Captain...?"

"Dobey," Dobey growled.

Too softly for anyone but Hutch to hear, Starsky chuckled. "Run, Christian, run..."

Hutch grinned.

"Well, Captain Dobey," Christian said, completely unaware of the danger he was heading towards, "like I said, this is my scene, and I'd highly appreciate it if you and your people could just pack up and leave."

"Agent... ?"

"Watterston," Hutch helped his superior, who just nodded.

"Your role in this whole matter will be investigated. Now get your suspect outta my Detectives' sight."

Without another word, Christian turned away. It didn't take the FBI parts of the crowd more than five minutes to evacuate the area, taking the explosives and Bosworth; the former NSA agent avoided looking at Hutch as he was shoved past the huddled figures on the ground.

In the distance, the siren of an approaching ambulance could be heard.

"Almost outta here, Buddy," Hutch whispered to Starsky, but got no response. Bending down a little, he saw that his friend had at last succumbed to unconsciousness. Swallowing back a groan, Hutch shifted once more to hug Starsky closer to himself.

"How'd you find me?" he asked Dobey, who was not leaving his position close to them.

"Starsky," the Captain replied. "He had every unit all over five cities looking out for something he called... the 'Flowermobile'?"

Hutch grinned and gently squeezed the back of Starsky's neck. "Good thinking, Partner."

"Hunter."

At Zadie's sudden voice behind him, Hutch jumped, then turned his head sharply, meeting her eyes.

"So your old man's a lawyer," she asked sarcastically, "huh?"

"You'll laugh; he really is."

She didn't laugh. "Bastard. You and your buddy think you're so smart, don't you? How did it feel watching us hurt him?"

Hutch averted his eyes. "Get her outta here."

"D'you enjoy it?" Zadie called, while she was shoved to a car and maneuvered inside. "Because you'll see it again, when I get out, cop! I swear you will!"

The squad car's door was thrown shut and merciful silence followed. Brighton had wisely kept quiet when he'd been led to another car.

"'Ey, man," Norton McLean addressed the blond when it was his turn to be led away.

Hutch looked up, blinking tiredly. He couldn't hide the fact that he was exhausted to the point of blacking out anymore. As if on cue, the ambulance arrived.

"You're cool," McLean said, nodding gravely.

Watching after him blankly, Hutch more felt than heard himself mutter his thanks.

The next moment, gentle, yet busy, determined hands were on him, checking his vitals, probing around his wound - awakening flaring pain - disentangling Starsky from his hold. Along with the hand came calming and calm voices, asking him questions that he answered as if in a trance.

All of a sudden, it seemed, he was so damned tired.

"Detective? Your partner has a strange looking burn on-"

"He was shocked. With a taser," Hutch mumbled. He felt himself gently guided down onto a gurney. His eyes refused to open again, but somewhere he found the strength to add, "His digits... right hand... You can fix that, can't you?"

He didn't hear the answer before darkness swallowed him.

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Hutch drifted in and out of consciousness while in the ambulance, as the paramedics took a first look at his shoulder, informed the hospital about their arrival and mostly unsuccessfully tried to get some answers from him. Apart from yes, it hurt and no, he wasn't hurt anywhere else, there wasn't much more they could get out of the exhausted blond.

As a personal record, Hutch only asked about his partner four times on the way into some quiet ER room. He was even too tired to put up much of a struggle when a happy med student bounced into the room, excitedly informing the patient that he was about to become the first person ever said student would provide with an IV.

Fortunately, the kid seemed to have practiced on non-living material before. He managed to drive the needle home smoothly, while, to Hutch's relief, a doctor entered the room, checking on the student's work, finally giving the detective something for the pain before turning to tend to the shoulder wound, which he then cleaned and stitched.

Though it was deep and had bled a lot, the good thing was that the bullet had cut through the flesh on its way out, hadn't gotten stuck and therefore didn't cause worry for a possible infection.

Yet, the blood loss, mingled with the anxiety and stress of the last 24 hours, had left Hutch depleted. He surrendered to sleep when the happily whistling student took over the bandaging.

The next time Hutch awoke, he at least felt a lot clearer, if still incredibly tired.

"'Bout time you woke up," he heard a familiar, gruff voice.

Blinking against the sleep that was still clinging to his eyes, Hutch slowly turned his head on the mattress and found himself looking at Dobey in the doorway, just about to enter.

It was still the same ER room, a fact that Hutch chose to interpret as good.

"Hey Cap'n," he croaked and cleared his throat. "Where's Starsky?"

"In a room upstairs," Dobey answered, stepping fully inside. "They'll keep him for a few more days. But don't worry," he quickly added. "He's alright."

"I take it that means they're not gonna keep me?" Hutch asked hopefully.

Dobey almost smiled. "I spoke to your doctor, and he says after this," he pointed at a light pink liquid slowly dropping through Hutch's IV, "has run through, he's willing to let you go. On condition that you take it easy for some time."

"D'he say anything about Starsky?" Hutch asked, ignoring the last sentence, as he tried to struggle into a sitting position.

Stopping him with his hand, Dobey pushed the button to elevate the bed. "There you go. Yes, he said they're monitoring him for signs of pneumonia and to keep an eye on his fever. Other than-"

"Pneumonia?" Hutch interrupted him concernedly. He frowned. "Wh... Oh. The dip in the sewer."

The captain nodded. "Right. Doc says Starsky probably lost consciousness because of the fall, just long enough to breathe in the water." Taking in Hutch's dismayed expression, he comfortingly added, "It's just a precaution, Hutch."

"But you said he's running a fever," Hutch pointed out darkly.

"Well," a sudden, deep male voice appeared from the door, "given his condition, that's nothing unusual, I assure you, Detective."

The source of said voice stepped fully inside, revealing a smallish man in his late fifties with an open, credible smile and somewhat unruly gray hair. His hands rested casually in the pockets of his white coat, decorated with so many pens that it made Hutch wonder if the good doctor might suffer from concentration difficulties.

"Hutchinson," Dobey said and turned from the doctor to Hutch again, "this is Dr. Greenwald."

Hutch nodded a faint greeting.

"So," Greenwald widened his friendly smile, "how's my patient?"

Hutch frowned. "I thought you were gonna tell me."

Unable to hide visible amusement, Dobey rolled his eyes.

The doctor snorted a chuckle. "Cops," he muttered to himself, shaking his head at the Captain, as if they shared a secret inside joke. When he looked at Hutch again, his expression was gentle, reassuring. "The other patient is doing fine. We have everything under control; the monitoring is just a precaution, like your Captain told you." Before Hutch even had the chance to ask something, Greenwald continued, "Yes, there's the danger of pneumonia, but other than waiting and watching, there's nothing we can do at this point. Apart from that, I'm sure I'm not breaking any news to you, when I tell you he's been through some, say, rough treatment, which left him pretty bruised up. Three ribs are cracked slightly, which will make it necessary for him to watch his movements for some time, but though very unenjoyable, none of his injuries appears to be life-threatening." The doctor paused, watching Hutch take it all in. "Does that answer your questions?"

It didn't. "What about his hand?" Lifting his own right one, as if for emphasis, Hutch winced when his injured shoulder screamed in protest even through the cover of painkillers.

Greenwald slightly arched his brows in sympathy, looking like an unnerved father, who felt close to reminding some kid to keep still for the hundredth time. "Like I said," he replied, keeping from advising this patient against dumb moves, "unenjoyable, but no cause for worries. His index and middle finger are broken, but they will heal just fine, very clean breaks, those. There's also some swelling of the upper hand, but that's just another bruise on his list. Painful," Greenwald added as an afterthought and shrugged, as if just having thought of something, "but he's getting drugs now."

Hutch eyed the doctor for a moment longer, trying to determine whether or not to be satisfied with the report, then abruptly looked at his IV and back. "Can I see him?"

Greenwald nodded, smiled. "Yes, Detective. I'll have a nurse come to wheel you upstairs in just a minute, okay?"

"'Kay."

"Good. D'you think you can try to think of yourself just a bit, too, for the next few days and take it easy?"

"Huh?" Frowning at Greenwald, Hutch caught the ironic smile sparkling in the older man's eyes and grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, sure, Doc, will do."

"Good," Greenwald repeated, giving the blond's good shoulder a parting pat. "I'll give the nurse a prescription for you. And don't forget to come back here to have those stitches removed," he said, pointing a warning finger at Hutch, who nodded obediently.

"Won't forget."

"Good, good. I'll see you in ten days then." With that, Greenwald turned, locking eyes with Dobey on his way to the door. "Not that bad a patient at all," he stated, sounding as if he'd expected much worse.

Hutch grinned discreetly, watching Dobey avoid his gaze, embarrassed.

His attention was once more drawn to Dr. Greenwald, though, when the doctor turned in the doorway, snapping his fingers. "Detective? When you go visit your friend, don't be surprised if he appears a bit... confused."

All amusement wiped away, Hutch frowned, instantly grabbed by worry again. "Confused?" he repeated dreadfully.

"Yeah." After a pause, Greenwald took a step inside the room again. "I understand he received an electrical shock to his head?"

Hutch paled. "Uh-huh..."

"Don't worry," Greenwald hurried to reassure him, lifting his hands. "He's going to be fine. I give you my word. There just might be some temporary problems with his short-term memory, due to a concussion and the afferefects of that shock. Electricity can be a tricky thing, when it hits the brain. Detective... ?"

"Starsky," Hutch helped absently, his expression miserable.

"Yes, Starsky," Greenwald continued, "showed some difficulties in answering our probing questions, but, like I said, I'm certain that it's a temporary reaction that will pass. Probably soon."

"'Probing questions'?" Hutch asked. "Like 'what's the date?'"

"Yes," Greenwald nodded. "Date, day of the week, mother's maiden name, governor of California, stuff like that. With cops, we sometimes add some regulation questions, for fun." He winked. "He knew the answers to those, alright."

Dobey snorted, glancing at Hutch, who returned the doctor's smile. "Now, that´d worry me."

Hutch chuckled slightly. "Thanks, Doc."

"My pleasure," Greenwald waved, pointing his index finger at the patient once more. "Don't forget to take it easy, Detective. Good night, gentlemen."

Turning from where he'd watched Greenwald leave, Dobey cast Hutch a stern look. "You know, my kids never cause me to talk to doctors."

Understanding, Hutch smiled. "Cap'n - that's because you leave it to Edith," he replied bemusedly.

Dobey chose to ignore that. "Now, will you please tell me what happened? I've been waiting for answers all night! First I hear nothing from you two in over a week, and then-"

"Have you spoken to Christian again?" Hutch interrupted him, all business again. "I-I mean Agent Watterston?"

"No," Dobey replied, exasperated. "I've been here, Hutch."

"Oh. Um..." Seeing a nurse pushing an empty wheelchair in the direction of his room from outside the open door, Hutch arched his brows pleadingly at his superior. "You'll get my report in the next few days, Cap'n. As soon as..." He gestured at his bandaged shoulder.

Dobey's expression darkened. "Hutchinson-"

"Detective..." The pretty petite nurse, who at that moment entered the room, looked down on the chart she was carrying, "Hutchinson?" She looked up, brushing a lock of honey-colored hair out of her eyes, eyes that found Hutch and lit up in a smile. "Hi, I'm Vicky. I'm here to take you upstairs. Ready?"

"Vicky." Hutch smiled. "Hi. Sure. Whenever you are." With pretty impressive speed for a sick man, he climbed out of the bed and into the wheelchair while Vicky carefully unhooked his IV, casting him the slightest of scowls for jostling around so much.

"See you, Cap'n," Hutch waved.

Dobey looked after him grimly. "Don't forget I know you've been released," he advised.

"You'll get my report," Hutch nodded.

"Hmpf," Dobey said, then, almost gently, added, "Tell Starsky I'll be seeing him tomorrow."

"Will do," Hutch smiled.

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Starsky was lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, fast, almost as if he was fighting sleep, but the moment he became aware of approaching noises, he excitedly turned his head on the pillow, revealing that what had looked like exhaustion from outside the room had in fact been a severe case of boredom.

"Hey!" he greeted Hutch happily, but didn't even catch the responding smile, as his eyes wandered up to take in Nurse Vicky's appearance. "And hi to you," he added, audibly impressed, and glanced at Hutch again. "Why is it you always get the pretty nurses? D'you pay extra?"

Hutch shrugged. "Parta my insurance."

Flattered, Vicky laughed. It was obvious that it wasn't the first time she'd found herself the center of some patients' interest, though. "Stop it, you two. You're making me blush."

Leaning his head back to look up at her, Hutch smiled. "And what a nice blush."

She chuckled some more and unceremoniously shoved his head into a straight position again. "Don't be such a rude visitor, Detective," she joked. "I'll be back to collect you when Dr. Greenwald decides to throw you out. Visiting hours are long over; he's making an exception for you."

"Oh, please," Hutch replied charmingly, "collect me any time."

Vicky made a show out of rolling her eyes, but waved when she left, very aware of the pair of gazes following her down the hall, until she vanished behind a corner.

"Did I ever tell ya I coulda been a doctor?" Starsky muttered, succeeding in having Hutch instantly turn to him again.

The blond shrugged. "They don't date doctors, y'know."

Starsky looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with wisdom. "You need to watch more TV, Blintz."

Hutch chuckled. "Yeah. So how d'you feel?" His eyes had found the bandaged right hand lying limply on the blanket that was covering Starsky.

"Okay," Starsky answered and coughed. "What did the doctor say?"

Smiling at the reminder of how well his partner knew him, Hutch replied, "He said you'll be as good as new in a few."

"Nice slogan," Starsky commented. Suddenly, his features tensing, he lifting his left hand weakly to gesture towards Hutch's shoulder. "What happened to you?"

Hutch frowned. Starsky sounded like he had no memory of asking that at the scene earlier that night. "Took a bullet," he informed him. "Just a graze, though. Don't you remember?"

Starsky grimaced slightly. "'Snot the only thing."

"Yeah, I heard," Hutch said gently, placing one hand on Starsky's arm. "But Dr. Greenwald said it's just temporary. Nothing to worry about. When you get outta here, your famously astonishing memory will be completely intact again."

"Don't you insult me, I'm sick!" Starsky protested jokingly and had to cough again, a bit longer this time.

Concern washing through him as it took the easy amusement away, Hutch arched his brows as he patted the spot where his hand lay on Starsky's arm. "Easy," he mumbled, feeing useless.

Visibly straining to make it appear as though the coughing wasn't bad - and didn't hurt - Starsky cleared his throat before speaking again. "Wanna tell me now why you got shot at?"

Hutch softened his expression. He knew exactly what his friend was doing, and for some reason it stirred a discomforting feeling inside him. Reminded him of another time, not that long ago, when he'd watched Starsky downplay his condition...

As if to clear it, he shook his head, then replied, "When Brighton heard Ethan was an undercover agent, he tried to shoot him."

"So?" Starsky asked tonelessly. "'Swhat I´d like to do, and I knew he was an agent all the time."

Grinning slightly at the dry joke, Hutch just said, "Yeah. But, anyway, I jumped in and took the bullet for him. Or," he added, waggling his head, "part of it. It's just a graze."

Starsky frowned. "Ya said that already. What I don't get is why'd you get yourself grazed for Ethan? We don't like Ethan."

"No, we don't," Hutch agreed, "but back then, Ethan was officially still holding you as a hostage, so," he shrugged, "couldn't have Brighton kill him. As much fun as that woulda been," he added sarcastically.

Starsky's face fell. "Oh." Pause, then, in a small voice: "I'm sorry."

"Wh... Y-you... Starsk, you've got nothing to be sorry for!" Hutch exclaimed, for some reason dismayed. "Nothing that happened was your fault! I´m sorry! I don't ... I'm... Feels like just 'I'm sorry' isn't even enough," he finally finished, his voice dropping, as if he was disappointed at how lame it sounded.

The frown on Starsky's forehead deepened. "How d'you figure that?"

Hutch stared at him. The horrible idea hit him that maybe Starsky didn't recall what had happened back at Camp California, due to his temporary confusion. "U-um... Starsky, y-you remember just how... I mean, how you got hurt, right? Before Ethan... took his turn at it too. Don't you?" he asked, almost pleadingly.

Visibly understanding, Starsky sighed. "Hutch, there's no need for you to feel guilty. Okay? And you got nothing to be sorry for."

"So you don't remember," Hutch stated dryly.

"I remember that you saved our lives back there. And Ethan's," Starsky said as an afterthought and shrugged awkwardly, "but can I forgive you that."

Hutch avoided meeting the eyes that he knew were full of unspoken comfort, the joking just a way of expressing comforting support. Support he just refused to accept, just like he had before. He didn't deserve support. And he hadn't deserved to be just grazed.

"His real name's Bosworth," he muttered instead of a reply. All of a sudden, he noticed that his hand was still lying on Starsky's arm. He drew it away, leaning back in the wheelchair. Created more distance. "Seems like we were right about him the first time. They did worry about him. Watterston said something about having been on Bosworth's case for quite some time now."

"Watterwho?" Starsky asked, confused.

"Christian," Hutch explained. "He's a fed."

Obviously, having heard that before didn't occur to Starsky, and so he widened his eyes. "He is!" His eyes wandering off for a moment, he muttered, as if to himself, "That sneaky little weasel," then, to Hutch again: "And here that guy pretended to not know about machine guns!"

"I know," Hutch nodded.

"He sprained my thumb!"

"I know!" Hutch replied.

"I hope you at least punched him for me!"

"Sure did," Hutch guaranteed.

Starsky gave a curt nod and coughed. The conversation was starting to wear him out, Hutch could tell. "Good for you. Why didn't he help us!"

A shadow rushed over the blond's features. "He was too focused on the bust, I guess. He would've let you die, if necessary."

His head bowed, Hutch looked up, surprised, when he felt a weak tug at his knee. Instantly, he leaned a bit forward again, so that Starsky could now squeeze his wrist.

"I wouldn't have died."

Hutch understood, forced himself to smile gratefully, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Got pretty banged up, though, didn't you?" Involuntarily, his gaze found the bandaged right hand again.

"At least I didn't get shot at," Starsky commented. "Honest, Blintz, what am I gonna do with you? I can't even leave you alone for just one night." As if just having thought of something, he slid a tad closer - only for emphasis, really - sniffed and wrinkled his nose. "And what did I tell you about smoking? Huh? See? See, what I meant? Didn't I tell you it'll be harder on you back in the real world than me? Hmm!"

"I happened to still be undercover," Hutch said dryly. He was about to add something else to his defense when Starsky's coughing interrupted him.

Having worn himself out a bit with that faked ranting, Starsky succumbed to yet another short but loud coughing fit that left him catching his breath and exhausted.

Concern flashing in his eyes, Hutch found himself squeezing his friend's shoulder comfortingly before he even had time to stop himself. "Easy, Buddy, easy. I'm right here."

Grimacing, as if at the taste in his mouth, Starsky stated, "I hate sewer water." He coughed again, just once, and cleared his throat.

Hutch smiled, discreetly lifting his hand to quickly brush a stray curl off Starsky's forehead as he spoke. The warmth he felt there didn't pass by, unnoticed. "Considering your preferred nutrition, that surprises me." Not waiting for an answer, he glanced around, finding what he was looking for on the nightstand. "Want some water?"

"Actually, now'd be a good time for the wine," Starsky replied tiredly, but accepted the glass Hutch held out for him. "Thanks." He was still grimacing when he handed it back, but it was so much a show, now, that Hutch rolled his eyes.

"What's gonna happen to Ethan now, you figure?" Starsky suddenly asked. "I mean, to Agent Bos...moth...?"

"Bosworth," Hutch corrected, then shrugged. "I don't know. But the building he wanted us to blow up was that new safe house down by the harbor. So-"

"So he really wanted to blow up whoever was hiding inside," Starsky finished.

Hutch nodded. "That was my conclusion as well, Watson."

"And who d'you figure that could be?" Starsky asked.

Hutch thought about it. "I have an idea, but I'm not sure. Guess I'll have to ask Agent Watterston about it the next time I see him."

Starsky grinned. "Planning on turning life into hell for someone, Blintz?"

"Who, me?" The grin turned into a chuckle. "I have to admit I would've loved to see Brighton and Zadie's faces when they found out about you."

Hutch's face fell. "Yeah. Let's just say I'm glad the roles weren't reversed, Buddy." He absently patted Starsky's arm, without looking, and only turned his head when he yet again felt a supporting, slightly feverish hand covering his.

"Me too, Partner. Me too."

Hutch's gaze dropped. The breath he drew in was shaky, and he quickly tried to cover it by clearing his throat, as he glanced over his shoulder at an approaching noise. "Here comes my cab."

Starsky didn't remove his hand; the casual touch Hutch knew was meant to communicate comfort; absolution, while at the same time Starsky wanted the blond to know none was needed.

Turning his head, Hutch had to visibly force himself to look at Starsky again. He smiled and reached out to squeeze his friend's shoulder with his free hand. "I'll be back later, Buddy. You get some rest, okay?"

Starsky blinked affirmatively. When Hutch tried to draw his hand out from under his, he gently held him back. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"You did a good job back there."

Hutch averted his eyes. "Yeah," he muttered, unconvinced, and patted Starsky's hand, then broke the contact.

With a happy greeting, Nurse Vicky reentered the room. "Ready to go home?" she asked kindly.

Hutch just nodded, didn't even look at her.

Sensing the change in the situation, Vicky wisely kept from any flirtatious comments. "I'll be back later to check on you," she told Starsky. "If you need anything, just push the call button."

"I know the drill," he smiled. "Will be counting the seconds." It sounded like he wanted to say something else, but coughing cut him off. Busy coughing and unable to speak, he just flapped his hand at Hutch, in an effort to pat the blond's knee that was out of reach.

Understanding, Hutch smiled slightly and waved at him. "Get some sleep, Starsk."

Vicky, the wheelchair and Hutch were already out of the room and almost around a corner, when Starsky's hoarse voice reached them. "'Ey Hutch!"

Hutch turned his head, brows raised questioningly. "Yeah?"

"Sorry 'bout the - cough - mess at your place!"

Deciding a coughing patient shouldn't yell so much, Vicky pushed on forward, taking any chance from Hutch to verbalize what went through his head. 'Mess?'

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The first thing Hutch did, when he finally, finally, finally came home again - after what felt like a lifetime of absence - was to break into his place. 'sigh Thanks, Partner.'

Being the safety-conscious person that he was, Starsky had, as always, forgotten to return the key to Hutch's door where the blond usually kept it, but had left it in the hole, which made it impossible for Hutch to even carefully gain access to his apartment.

In the absence of any alternatives, he surrendered to kicking in his own door, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the smell that greeted him was as homely and long-yearned for as sewer odor could possibly be.

Sniffing miserably as he stepped inside, leaving the useless door wide open, Hutch felt his face fall. "Welcome home," he muttered under his breath, taking in the dried, stinking puddles Starsky had left on his hasty, seemingly uncoordinated way inside.

Apparently, the brunet had had to stop several times on his way to the telephone - grimy dark spots on the couch and kitchen table gave grim testament to that. Hutch cringed sympathetically at the sight of a still slightly damp, especially nasty looking spot on the ground just behind the couch, where the carrier of all the dirt and dirty water had obviously fallen down and had remained lying there for some time.

'Probably lost consciousness,' Hutch figured, renewed concern clouding any annoyance.

The phone was still off the hook. Hutch hung it up gingerly, his touch on the receiver almost soft, as if it was somehow linked to his injured friend. Absently, he carried it with him, as he started to check on little details in his living-room, opened the windows to let the fresh, late-morning air sweep away the smell. Keiko had obviously kept his promise to drop by regularly and water the plants - none had died.

"Hey, plants. I'm home," Hutch sing-songed in the vague direction of the greenhouse and finally put the phone away when the wire stopped him abruptly on his way inside. "How's life? Everything green?" he greeted his little jungle's inhabitants further, randomly watering a few on a short walk through the glassy room. There, the smell wasn't as bad, either. Starsky obviously had not taken the time to say hi to the plants.

Hutch smiled at that, drawing irrational comfort from that giddy thought, while others stole themselves into his serenity. Memories of Starsky whining about how badly he wanted to go home, the back-then amusingly annoying moans now suddenly appearing heartbreaking, as Hutch let his gaze wander through his much-missed greenhouse and inside the apartment again. It was always such a great feeling to return home after an undercover assignment.

He sighed, putting away the watering can.

On his way to the drawer, he shed the scratchy scrubs he'd been given at the hospital - they'd had to cut off his shirt to tend to the shoulder wound (not to mention it had a hole in it now, anyway) - and suppressed a wide yawn, as well as the desperate urge to just climb into his own bed and sleep for a week. In fact, he wisely kept from even glancing at his inviting bed and instead looked at the clock on his nightstand that told him it was almost noon.

Had it really been just a day since he'd been sitting next to an excitedly-rambling Brighton Dobbs on their way to discover Starsky's favorite Californian toy store?

Hutch shook his head sarcastically as he gathered fresh clothes and headed for the shower. 'Time really flies, when you're having fun,' he thought to himself, but frowned a second later, when it hit him the saying made no sense in the situation.

Rolling his eyes at himself, he stepped into the shower. He was already relaxingly soaked when yet another thought hit him too late - don't shower with stitches in your arm.

'Aw, damn it.'

Hand reaching up to turn off the water, he froze, shrugged - which earned him a probably well-deserved wince - and stayed where he was, savoring the forbidden shower, since he was wet now, anyway, stitches and everything.

But still, the good old 'it's nice to be home'-feeling didn't reach him; whenever it tried to, his thoughts would wander off to Starsky, who was lying in a hospital bed, beaten, bandaged, monitored and coughing, and who wouldn't return home for at least another week.

Hutch closed his eyes, let his head hang. Streaks of water ran down his forehead, over his closed lids. He felt like scum. Even more so, when he thought of his partner's easily-dispensed absolution, the helpless expression in Starsky's eyes, when he had tried to comfort him, Hutch. Who was the reason he was at the hospital in the first place, for crying out loud!

... well, and Bosworth, Hutch added hesitantly, but that didn't count - Bosworth wasn't Starsky's partner and best friend. Bosworth was the bad guy - he had been, if not entitled, bound to hurt the good guy. No one would expect less from the bad guy. But Hutch doing it, now, that was different.

Hutch needed to be the one Starsky could trust. With his life. Unconditionally.

And, okay, yes, so he had saved their lives by playing along back at Camp California. Probably.

Very probably.

But still, he had hurt Starsky!

Hutch didn't even realize he'd formed a fist with his right hand until he felt the protesting pain from his wounded shoulder. Looking down at his clenched hand, he didn't ease up on the straining muscle, though. So he hurt now - well, good! He damn well should hurt! Starsky hurt, didn't he?

Only when there was a justified fear of passing out in the shower did he allow his arm to relax, then turned off the water. For some time, he just stood in the still shower, dripping, staring ahead at nothing that was really there. Eventually, he started to shiver slightly, but ignored it, didn't move.

An unstoppable flood of other solutions to his previous predicament washed through him, as if his own home had held those prisoner all the time and only now decided to let them go and mock him. He could have... He should have...

'Who ever said it was Starsky's decision! Why is it his call, when I have to stand back and... Well, watch! Why did I even listen to him in the first place! It's not like he could've put up much of a struggle, if I'd just decided to God damn carry him outta there!'

How true, but... he had felt pretty guilty what with having broken Starsky's fingers before, hadn't he? He would've done anything Starsky told him to.

'I should have... Damn it, I should've played my cards out in the open from the start. Try to go for the gun. Hell, I could've asked Brighton for the fucking gun!'

True again, but... What about Ethan Gerardy? Same situation - they would have left without knowing where the agent was, leaving him to deal with a fatal situation upon his return.

'But Eth... Bosworth's a dirty agent! Who set us up!'

He hadn't known that then.

'And that's supposed to be an excuse!'

Did he really need excuses?

'For Christ's sake, yes! I broke his bones!'

Yeah, right, but... just considering Zadie's later idea - what would Brighton have done to Starsky before, if Philip Hunter hadn't taken over? What about the wisdom of at least staying in control of his partner's pain, if it was impossible to avoid it? What about that?

'What about I never would've thought I could hurt Starsk? What about that!'

What about the fact that he saved Starsky's life? Twice?

'The second time was a misunderstanding.'

Still.

'Speaking of which...' Rushed by a sudden wave of energy breaking through the exhaustion, Hutch hurried out of the shower and into fresh clothes.

Before he could rest, he had people to meet.

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Oh, hell, the day had already started with breaking his latest diet's rules - And whose fault had that been! Not his! It wasn't his fault he'd had to sit in some ER waiting room all morning! - so that meant it was out of the count, anyway, didn't it? Sure it did. Besides, he was the Captain, for Christ's sake, he was supposed to give orders, not follow them! So there!

Plus - how would Edith ever find out?

Since the answer to that last question was obvious - spies, spies everywhere - Dobey left his office very discreetly, head held high to cause any officer who coincidentally glanced in his direction to think better of it. He was stopped short, though, when his scanning eyes found an unexpected figure more or less slumped on a chair behind a nearby desk.

Dobey frowned. "Hutchinson, what're you doing here?"

"Thinking," came the mumbled response from down where the blond head hung in between Hutch's hands.

"And you can't do that at home?" Dobey asked in a mixture of gruff annoyance and growing concern.

Hutch lifted his head, tired, bloodshot eyes finding those of his Captain. "My place stinks."

Dobey sighed at the pitiful sight. "Have you slept at all?"

With a somewhat wry smile, Hutch feebly rubbed his eyes. "Thought you wanted that report ASAP."

Dobey rolled his eyes and stepped back inside his office, leaving his door open. "My office. C'mon, move it."

He had long sat down in his own chair again, when the exhausted detective finally dragged himself inside and with seemingly superhuman strength closed the door behind him.

"Sit down," Dobey ordered and watched the show of Hutch practically melting into the chair he gratefully sank into. "What is it?"

Hutch opened his mouth to reply, thought about it, closed it again, eyed Dobey. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded resigned. As if he was too tired to even try and come up with a lie. "I'm looking for a way to get back at a federal agent, but I can't think of anything but an official complaint. Which I can't file."

"Why not?"

Hutch sighed. "'Cause I punched the little shit, that's why."

"And that's not getting back at him enough?" Dobey asked.

Hutch just looked at him.

"Hmm," Dobey muttered, understanding. He paused, then asked, "This fed happens to be young Agent Watterston?"

Hutch nodded.

"I got his report an hour ago."

"Wait 'til you read mine," Hutch replied grimly.

"Yeah. I figured that," Dobey said sincerely. He had no doubts about how the inconsistencies he'd found in Christian Watterston's report would read in Hutchinson's. The federal agent had made a mistake too huge to hide it from trained eyes. "You know he'll get it after that, don't you?"

"Get what?" Hutch exclaimed. "An official warning? If this kid never gets an undercover assignment again, it'll be too soon, Cap'n!"

Dobey sighed. "I know. Well," he at last added with a small sigh, "I'll deny I said it, but to me it looks like this situation would justify the use of any intern... helper you got in the bureau. Know what I mean?"

Hutch just stared blankly. "'Intern helper'," he repeated. "What, with the FBI?"

Dobey frowned, surprised. "You and Starsky don't have a fed friend?"

"Um..."

"Kids," Dobey muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he reached for his phone. "How'd you manage all these years without a fed friend!" he rambled on without looking at Hutch, as he dialed a number he'd looked up in a small black address book lying on his desk.

"Uh... I... w-we don't particularly like-" Hutch started in a small voice, but Dobey just waved him off.

"Listen and learn," he advised his detective, before speaking into the receiver. "Surtee? Yeah, Dobey here. How's it going?" For a few moments, he listened - visibly uninterested, nodding repetitively - then spoke again. "Oh, fine. Fine. - Yeah. - Mm-hmm. I know, don't tell me. Not what it used to be. - No. - No... listen, I need a favor." And here, he grinned, if slightly. A tiny bit wickedly. "Just put it on the list. - How often have I told you, you can always call me and... - Okay, it's about one of your men. Young guy. Um..." Brushing through the pile of papers on his desk, he found Watterston's report and read, "Watterston, Christian. Special agent. - Yeah. - Yes. - Oh? 29, yeah, that's him." He looked up at Hutch, who was watching him with what looked like amused awe and repeated, "His birthday's next week."

"Hooray," Hutch mumbled dryly. Dobey was talking to Surtee again. "That's nice. - Mm-hmm. - But, listen, um, I have a detective sitting here who'd like to see Watterston celebrating his big day with a promotion."

Hutch frowned...

"Y'know, something that'll push him up the ladder, right behind a desk somewhere."

... and grinned.

Dobey listened for a few moments, then smiled and lifted his brows at Hutch. "Alaska?" he repeated Surtee's words.

Hutch widened his eyes and - after the briefest moment - nodded eagerly. Dobey thought he looked like a little boy participating in a giddy prank.

"Yeah," he said to Surtee. "Sure. That's the place to be when you're young and ambitious, just what I'm always saying. - No, never been there. Uh-hmm..." As he listened to his the agent's rambles about Alaska, he rolled his eyes. "That's all very interesting, Al, but..." He smiled. "Yeah. - Okay. - You do that. I owe you." A gruff laugh. "Like I said, put it on the list. Well, then-"

"Wait," Hutch hurried to stop the hanging-up-preparations. "Ask him about Roland Bosworth."

Dobey frowned, puzzled. "Hang on a second. What?" he asked Hutch.

"Roland Bosworth, that's Ethan Gerardy's real-"

"Surtee," Dobey interrupted him, "I'm handing you over to my detective. Say hi to the kids for me, okay? Bye." And with that he held out the receiver for Hutch, who took it with a slightly uncomfortable expression on his face.

"Um... this is Detective Hutchinson, I'm... - Yes, thanks." He listened for some moments, exchanging a now-knowing glance with his superior. "Yes, just one more thing. Watterston was on the trail of a NSA agent named Roland Bosworth. I just want to know where..." He trailed off, listening. A shadow suddenly formed on his face. "And that's for sure? - Okay. - Thank you very much, Agent... Al," he smiled, causing Dobey to once more roll his eyes. "Yeah, I guess we will," Hutch continued, still smiling. "Yep. - Just put it on Dobey's list. Thanks." Finally, he hung up, looking at his Captain with renewed respect. "You have a friend in the FBI," he stated, impressed.

Dobey shook his head as if disappointed. "What do they teach you kids at the academy nowadays? Of course I do. Every cop needs at least one fed friend. That doesn't mean we have to like them."

Hutch chuckled, nodded. "How true. Mind if we borrow yours in the future?"

"Just don't spoil him," Dobey wisecracked and, just obviously enough for Hutch to catch, softened his voice. "So - can you go home and get some shuteye, now that your problem is going to get transferred to the North Pole?"

"Not quite," Hutch replied and stood to leave. "Thanks for the help, Cap'n."

Dobey just waved a 'don't mention it' gesture, watching his detective close the door behind himself and leaned back in his chair, absently closing his address book. Sometimes telephone lines were a nice alternative to the streets, weren't they?

Smiling to himself, he stood to once more try and sneak past the spies towards the vending machine...

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What with knowing Special Agent Christian Watterston would probably get a lot of longjohns and gloves for his 30th birthday, Hutch felt better, but like he had told Dobey, he wasn't quite ready to rest, yet. There was still one name left to be scratched off his list.

Most of what Al Surtee had had to tell him hadn't been surprising. Just like he'd thought, Roland Bosworth had tried to eliminate the most important witness in his case: none other than Darren Nicholas. Hutch had assumed that. And he'd also assumed - though refused to accept - that the feds would try and have Bosworth testify against a whole bunch of people who had been involved with Nicholas' groups over the past months. In return, Bosworth himself would be put on the list of exchange prisoners, instead of being sentenced for illegal dealing with weapons, treason and drug dealing. So after a year at the most, he'd go free, since a man with his qualities - the lack of conscience, for example, as Hutch thought grimly - could be of great use for a lot of dictatorships.

'One year. That's all that son of a bitch's gonna get, before they fly him out to sunny Outtastate.' And there was nothing Hutch could do; absurdly as it was, being an officer of the law, he should even be glad they could offer Bosworth a deal and thereby gain information enough to bust a whole bunch of other dangerous people. But, having been one of Bosworth's chess figures in this last game, Hutch wasn't glad.

He wasn't usually one to go for revenge. Or at least he liked to tell himself that. Having Christian Watterston sent away to Alaska and, more importantly, behind a desk hadn't been revenge, but a necessity: it was Hutch's duty to protect his fellow officers from a guy like that.

'At last,' he thought darkly, catching a quick glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. Just like showering with stitches, driving with a bandaged shoulder probably wasn't the smartest idea, but he hadn't caused any accidents, yet, so what? Besides, the drive to the precinct that held Roland Bosworth wasn't that long, anyway.

Long enough, though, for an idea to form inside his head, so that a somewhat wicked smile spread on his face as he climbed the front stairs to the building. So he wasn't one to go for revenge - usually. But when his partner was concerned, usually didn't count. After all, people should know that by now.

"Hutch," a sudden familiar voice stopped him on his way down the hallway, and Hutch stopped to turn and look at the person he'd actually been on the way to see.

He smiled, reaching out to shake the other man's ridiculously huge hand. "Grady! How's it going? How's Lisa?"

"Great, thanks. She made second in her class' reading contest the other day." Grady Michaels grinned, showing a row of uncared-for teeth that matched his three-time-broken nose and deep scars on his forehead. He looked so much like an ad for 'Stay outta trouble, kids. - Jail looks like this!' that it never ceased to amaze Hutch. He and Starsky had once arrested Grady for robbery, and when they'd found out he had been trying to get a job for months by then, to support not only him, but his little daughter as well, they had asked around until they'd found a job for him as a janitor - in a police precinct of all places.

Well, Hutch thought, he and Starsky may not have fed friends, but they sure knew the right people for every occasion. "That's great! Tell her congrats from me."

"Will do," Grady promised. "She's still all excited. But," he added, suddenly frowning, "what about you, man? Where's the other one? Something happen?"

Hutch smiled. "That's actually the reason I'm here. I need a favor, Grad. D'you have some time?"

"You kidding?" Grady replied sincerely. "For you, I'd make time! Hey, Starsky's alright, isn't he?"

"Oh, sure," Hutch waved assuringly. "Don't worry. He's in the hospital right now, but he'll be okay."

"Hospital?" Grady repeated, dismayed. "Crap, man! Okay, who d'you want me to get for that?"

Hutch chuckled, patting the much taller man's huge bicep. "Hold your horses, Pal. It's not like that. Actually, I just need you to look like you're gonna get someone for it. Think you can do that?"

Puzzled, Grady furrowed his brows. "You lost me."

"I'll explain," Hutch said and started to walk, Grady following him, listening to the plan.

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Roland Bosworth looked like he was in a mood way too good for a guy who'd been busted for treason merely 20 hours ago. But then, Hutch figured, considering the constant stress the agent must've experienced in the months before, sitting in a nice, warm, safe interrogation room probably wasn't the worst of things. Not to mention knowing it would only be a year - maybe even less - before it would all be over for him. He would be seated in a nice, warm, safe plane on the way to some nice, warm, relatively safe country, ruled by some questionable government, where he would just lay low for the rest of his life, forever grateful that he survived what, to most people, was a fatal political decision.

Hutch had no doubts that said life wouldn't be one spent in poverty. Some secret account in Switzerland was probably bursting with money that Bosworth had made behind Nicholas' back.

Watching the former NSA agent from behind a huge window - this window being the only one in the building that would allow Bosworth to see into Htuch's little room, which was exactly why had chosen this room in the first place - he shook his head. Why people went with risky plans like this, he would never understand. What was wrong with earning just enough money to have a nice, safe life, without ever getting in trouble huge enough to have yourself killed? But then, who was he to talk?

Pushing the thoughts aside, he cleared his throat, just loud enough for Bosworth to hear him from inside the room. Bosworth lifted his head to meet Hutch's hard gaze.

Surprise flickered through the agent's eyes, but he quickly covered it with a smug smile, even lifting his cuffed hands in a wave. It was only then that he caught Grady Michaels´ impressive form behind the blond detective. Michaels, too, was cuffed and had exchanged his gray working clothes for the notorious orange of jail overalls.

Seeing that Bosworth had discovered his companion, Hutch turned slightly to look at Grady and winked. Then, he stepped inside the room, closing the door behind himself. Grady remained where he was, his jaw firmly set, his eyes never leaving Bosworth, whose gaze nervously slipped away repeatedly, though he tried to focus on the entering detective.

"Hi," Hutch greeted him and slowly dragged a chair to the table where Bosworth sat.

"Detective," Bosworth said, futilely attempting to sound unimpressed. "How nice to see you again. What can I do for you?"

Hutch sat across the table and looked down as if thinking about the question. "Nothing," he finally replied and casually put his folded hands on the table. He smiled.

Silence followed, interrupted only by the soft, nervous sounds of clothing materials brushing against each other when Bosworth moved to look at Grady Michaels, outside.

Hutch just watched.

"Okay, I'm swallowing the bait," Bosworth finally stated, irritated. "Who's your friend?"

Hutch blinked as if confused, than looked outside the window at Grady. "Oh. Him." He waved. "He's not my friend. Are you kidding? He's just a guy a friend of mine busted for breaking another fellow's neck." He paused, then as if an afterthought, added, "With his bare hands." He nodded importantly.

Bosworth frowned, seeming to try to follow, but settled for smiling at Hutch again, visibly choosing to not play along anymore. "How's your partner?"

Hutch ignored that. "I heard they're sending you to Sacramento for some chats, until they find someone who's willing to exchange more worthy people for you."

Bosworth smiled smugly and shrugged. "I'm a wanted man."

"Oh yeah," Hutch nodded dryly. "How true." Once more, he paused, appearing like he was choosing his next words. "Sacramento. Nice place. Nice folks working there. Good people."

"Well," Bosworth replied, trying to sound as smug as before, but it seemed that - slowly - understanding was starting to reach him. "I'm not gonna stay there long."

"Yeah. What a shame. But," Hutch shrugged, "time's relative, isn't it? Even a day can be awfully long, when you fear for your life."

Bosworth eyed him uncertainly. "So I've heard. I'm sure you have more experience there than me, though."

"Mm-hmm," Hutch nodded absently. He had turned his head to look at Grady, as if he was studying the bulky man. When he looked at Bosworth again, he nodded, like they were sharing a secret. "Y'know what I like about people like us, Ethan? Uh," he smiled, "I mean, Roland. Y'know what? We have class. Dignity. We wouldn't do everything for money. Not like him," he pointed at Grady with his thumb, "for example. I mean," he snorted a half-chuckle, "I know money's even more valuable in jail, but that guy, he's really focused on it. Know what I mean? The other guy, whose neck he broke?" He made a short pause for emphasis, then in a half-whisper continued, "Twelve dollars. That's how much the poor bastard owned him. I mean, c'mon! Twelve dollars! Insane, isn't it?" He smiled.

Bosworth just stared at him for a long moment, then at Grady, who grinned, then back. "Do you honestly believe I'm buying this?" he asked, to Hutch sounding like he'd bought it long ago. "That you paid that ape over there to break my bones? D'you really think I'm scared now!"

Hutch grinned, looking eerily like a little boy having the time of his life, and nodded. "Oh, yes."

Bosworth face fell, his gaze flying from Grady to Hutch and back. "B-but... I'm... You can't do this, I'm... y-you're a cop!"

Hutch sighed sadly, sounding like he actually felt sorry for the man. As if disappointed, he shook his head. "D'you ever have a partner, Roland?"

Mouth hanging open, Bosworth stared at him.

Hutch shrugged in a 'can't help it' manner, then stood up. "Have fun watching your back," he happily advised and left the room, before Bosworth had the chance to reply. The pathetic calls after him he ignored, but wiggled his fingers at the agent when he walked past the window.

Grady Michaels remained where he was for a few moments longer, staring directly at Bosworth, then, without ever having moved his features, turned to follow Hutch.

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"Starsk, stop laughing, you're gonna hurt yourself." With a mixture of honest concern and amusement, Hutch sighed, when only coughing answered him. Coughing mingled with helpless laughter, that had been going on ever since he'd told his partner about his 'little act of vengeance'.

Though the danger of pneumonia seemed to have ceased a bit - they weren't monitoring his heart anymore - the time Starsky had spent in the cold sewer water had still left him with a severe cold, and the coughs seemed to have worsened since Hutch had last seen him. But then, maybe they hadn't. After all, laughing obviously had that effect on weakened lungs - and up until now Starsky hadn't done much more than laugh.

Hutch watched for a few more moments. "C'mon, Buddy, calm down, or I can't tell you about what Dobey and I achieved for Agent Watterston."

At that, Starsky frowned, swallowing back a cough. "Who?" he asked hoarsely.

"Christian," Hutch replied, worry instantly softening his voice. "He's a fed, remember?"

"I just forgot his name," Starsky snapped and suppressed another cough. "I don't forget every... cough ...everything you tell me, y'know?"

"I know." Hutch smiled apologetically.

"Yeah." Starsky gave a curt nod. "Just because I forgot it five times already, doesn't mean I forgot it now." A dry-humored glance found Hutch, who chuckled.

"Course not, Gordo."

"Okay, Great Avenger, what'd you do to the kid?"

"Hey, it wasn't me," Hutch defended himself, lifting his hands slightly. "It was Dobey's idea. Oh, by the way, we're allowed to use his fed friend from now on."

"What's a fed friend?"

"A friend in the FBI," Hutch explained.

"Who has friends in the FBI!" Starsky asked incredulously. "Dobey!"

Hutch nodded.

"Sneaky guy."

Hutch nodded more.

"And I hope he had someone break Christian's thumb with a machine gun."

"Ah... nope," Hutch shook his head.

"Damn."

"Better," Hutch promised. "He promoted him."

Starsky looked at him, a frown slowly spreading on his forehead. "And that's an appropriate measure, because... ?"

"D'you promise to not hurt yourself laughing again, when I tell you?"

For an answer, Starsky just pressed his lips together.

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Good thinking. Okay, they're gonna give him a desk job. In Alaska."

Instead of bursting with laughter, this time Starsky just grinned. And widely. It was the meanest, most wicked, most downright evil grin Hutch thought he'd ever seen on his partner's face.

"That's neat," Starsky finally stated, nodding gravely. "Classy too."

"Thought you'd like it."

"I surely do. You'd make for a good avenger, Blintz," he added and reached out to pat Hutch's arm, but the blond sat too far away. As if out of reflex, Hutch bent forward in his chair so that Starsky could reach him.

Seeing that he would touch the bandaged arm, though, Starsky lowered his hand to the mattress again. "How's the arm?" he asked, pointing his chin at Hutch's shoulder.

As if a switch had been turned, all easy amusement faded from the blond's face. His gaze sank down to Starsky's wrapped up right fingers, and wandered over to the burn on his neck. It was no longer bandaged, but it shone slightly with the antiseptic cream the nurse had put on it.

"Fine," Hutch mumbled. "Just fine."

Starsky frowned lightly, familiar concern edging forward on his face. Ever so carefully, he nudged Hutch's arm after all. "Hey."

"Hmm?" Visibly torn out of unpleasant thoughts, Hutch lifted his gaze, blinked. A forced smile appeared on his face. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for saving my life."

"Y-you, um, you already said that, Starsk," Hutch replied, taken off guard.

"Oh?" Starsky asked, unimpressed, then shrugged, very careful to not stir the pain that had just been suppressed by medication. "Well, I can't remember doing it. So..." He smiled gently. "Thanks."

Hutch tilted his head to one side, watching him, then dropped his gaze. "You're welcome."

"Have you slept at all?"

Surprised, Hutch lifted his head again. "I'm... um..."

Starsky sighed softly, sounding amusingly paternally. "You look beat."

"Uh... I-I'm... My place smells," Hutch stammered, before he could stop himself.

Starsky grimaced. It was more of a show than sincere regret, though. "Right. Sorry 'bout that. Well," he added casually, "you know you can always stay at my place."

Apparently, that didn't brighten Hutch's mood. "Thanks," he muttered, but sounded as if that offer only made things worse.

Starsky watched him for a long moment and sighed. "Hutch, we need to-"

"Knock, knock," Nurse Vicky's melodic voice cut him off as she entered the room, pushing an empty wheelchair. "I'm sorry," she said, when the men turned to look at her, "but it's time for the x-rays, Mr. Starsky."

"Didn't I tell you to call me Dave?"

"No." Vicky smiled.

"Can't believe I forgot that." Starsky shook his head and returned the smile. "Please, call me Dave."

"Okay," she accepted pleasantly. "Dave, it's time for the x-rays. Ken," she turned to Hutch, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to either wait here or leave."

"Huh?" Hutch muttered, as if confused. He was obviously slow to shake off the crushing grip of guilt that had held him before, and hadn't yet switched on his charm. Instead, he blinked up at her questioningly.

Sensing the state his friend was in, Starsky swallowed any comment about Vicky knowing Hutch's name and instead brushed his good hand against Hutch's arm to get his attention. "Hey, Blondie, go get some sleep, okay?"

"Uh... yeah," Hutch nodded, not very convincingly, and hurriedly wiped over his strained features. "Yeah, sure. I'll be back later."

"I know," Starsky smiled. With Hutch's help, he climbed out of bed and into the wheelchair. He held onto the blond's arm just a tad longer than necessary, causing Hutch to really look at him this time. "Promise me you'll get some sleep," he said seriously.

Hutch just nodded.

"Okay. See ya."

"Yeah," Hutch said, forcing a reassuring smile on his lips before he stepped aside to let Nurse Vicky take over the wheelchair.

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It was the third day of his Great Plan, and Starsky couldn't help admitting to himself that things weren't working out quite the way that he had intended. In fact, it might even be that the tactics he had chosen had been completely wrong.

The plan had seemed brilliant, at the beginning. Knowing Hutch, he had very soon come to acknowledge that no matter what he said, his guilt-ridden friend would stick to feeling like crap as stubbornly as he usually stuck to the conviction of being right. There was no breaking through the thick walls of unforgiveness Hutch had built around himself - for now. So while still in the hospital, Starsky had settled for distracting his partner whenever he'd seen the obvious signs of another wave of guilt and distress threatening to swallow Hutch. He had even - more or less subtly - encouraged gorgeous Nurse Vicky to flirt with the blond, anything to keep Hutch from being dragged into the black hole of his own thoughts too often.

But it had turned out that gorgeous Nurse Vicky was engaged to a much older doctor, and Hutch didn't seem as easy to distract as he used to be. The latest events had obviously really shaken him to the core. Much more so than Starsky, who, if not particularly enjoying his stay at the hospital, didn't see it as a bigger deal than any other of his previous hospital stays. After all, work was tough. Could get you hurt or sick or both. He could live with that. But he found Hutch's pain hard to endure, especially because he knew the pain was his partner's fault. And it was unnecessary. The thought of blaming Hutch for anything was absurd, and it sickened Starsky to think that his friend did it all over again every time he looked at the healing patient in the hospital bed. As if he, Starsky, himself carried the proof of Hutch's crimes all over his body like some banner, when the truth was that they both owed their lives to Hutch's instincts and to his ability to play no-way-out-situations better than any other cop Starsky could think of. Including himself.

Yet, he understood Hutch's pain. Hell, he didn't want to start to imagine how he'd feel in Hutch's place! So, after a dozen futile attempts at really talking it out, he'd settled for his great, great plan, which was to get Hutch to start with the talking. By driving him crazy.

Ever since he'd been released from the hospital and finally, finally, finally returned to his home, he'd done everything - but everything! - to turn mother-henning into one hell of a job for Hutch. And it was not like that was an easy plan to begin with, since Hutch could be exceptionally patient when mother-henning. All the things he would usually respond to with sarcasm were suddenly treated gently, softly, like the symptoms of some serious sickness. Whining, moaning, grumbling and demanding usually led Starsky right to the end of Hutch's patience, but it became harder when he was sick, and this time, it seemed that the blond's will to endure was sheerly endless.

So, all Starsky had managed so far was to drive himself half-nuts, to the point where he'd succumbed to being downright mean - secretly hiding the remote control he'd just demanded Hutch get for him, or deliberately asking for the one sort of juice he knew couldn't possibly be in his fridge, maybe not even available in the city.

Up until now, nothing had worked. Stubbornly gentle, Hutch spent his days going wherever he was sent, bringing whatever he was asked to bring, and - though it had taken some time - he had found that particular juice. (Which, by the way, had been the yuckiest stuff Starsky had ever had to drink, except for Hutch's morning shake.)

Slowly, but steadily, Starsky was moving from determination to help his friend to becoming increasingly worried. When he had come home, he had found that matters were a bit worse than he had first thought; Hutch had obviously not taken Starsky up on his offer to stay at his apartment. That alone wasn't discomforting, but what worried Starsky was that Hutch had tried to make it look like he'd stayed there. There'd been some used dishes in the sink and a blanket and pillow on the couch, but - Starsky being Starsky - he instantly sensed that his place wasn't somewhere that Hutch - of all people - had recently used. Hutch was a messy guest, and he knew it. So Starsky assumed that in order to make the show credible, his partner had deliberately created a small, believable mess. Only it was too small. Too... neat for a mess. Whoever heard of Hutch putting dirty dishes in the sink!

As for the sleeping supplies... one good look at the blond betrayed any impression that the pillow and blanket had meant to create. An ever-present strain slowly edged its way deeper into Hutch's face, matching-ever exhausted eyes. Now that he was home, Starsky could see for himself that Hutch was neither sleeping nor eating much. The question was: where had he spent the few nights Starsky had still been at the hospital, and, more importantly: when the hell was this going to finally stop!

Hearing the key rattle in the door, Starsky sat up a bit more in his bed, where he'd lain and mind-rambled almost all afternoon, after having awakened from a post-lunch nap to find Hutch gone, a note on the nightstand letting him know it wouldn't be for long.

When no immediate greeting or call for him could be heard, Starsky frowned, bent his head a bit in a futile attempt to peek through the nearly-closed bedroom door. "Hutch?"

Something that sounded remotely like an answer, but could also have been an exhausted snort, answered him. Two minutes later, the door was gently pushed open to reveal a very tired-looking Hutch still in the process of peeling himself out of his jacket. "Hey, Starsk. Have a nice nap?"

Starsky took in his friend's appearance. "Mm-hmm," he mumbled in response. "Where've you been?"

"Um..." Hutch started to answer, but had to suppress a yawn and tiredly rub his eyes before finishing. "I had my lock changed. Brought you the new key," he added as an afterthought as he reached for the key. Somehow he managed to let it fall out of his hands just when he'd finally gotten it off his key chain. Annoyed, he looked after it, as if down a cliff, then bent down to pick it up.

"Hey," he pointed out on his way back up, hands searching for the mentioned key, "you found it."

Following Hutch's gaze, Starsky found himself looking at the remote control he'd absently put on his nightstand a couple of hours before. He hadn't yet had the time to hide it again. "Yep," he replied. "It was, um... Why'd you have to change your lock again? The last one wasn't even a month old."

"Lost the key," Hutch replied tiredly. Once more, he rubbed his face, yawned and, jacket still in hand, sat down on the edge of Starsky's bed. Only after a moment did he remember he was still holding onto the key inside one pocket, and he put it on the nightstand next to the remote control. "There y'are."

Starsky frowned. "How could you lose your key when you haven't been there for days?"

Stopping in the middle of a tired sigh, Hutch looked like he was thinking his answer through and in the end simply stated, "Dunno."

Taking pity on him, Starsky let him be, after that. "Smell any better?" he asked instead. "You know, I'm really sorry about that."

Hutch snorted softly, as if gently chiding, and patted Starsky's knee. "Don't be silly, Gordo, you know it's not your fault. Besides, it really is much better." A sarcastic expression settled on his features when he added, "The locksmith barely made a comment."

Something in Hutch's tone switched on a light inside Starsky's mind, and it illuminated a new source of hope. "So, tough day, huh?" he asked slyly.

Hutch didn't catch the change in Starsky's tone and simply shrugged in affirmation.

"Poor Hutch. Did you get the cough medicine?"

Hutch's features visibly froze, as he very slowly lifted his head to look at Starsky. "What?"

"The cough medicine," Starsky repeated innocently. "Y'know, the one I told ya to get this morning."

"Starsky, that's for kids. I thought you were joking."

"Well, I wasn't," Starsky replied, noticing with dismay the familiar signs on Hutch's face which indicated that he was about to give in. The following words, though, hit him with relieving surprise.

"I'm really beat, Buddy. Don't you think you can take the other one just one more time tonight, and I'll go get you kiddie stuff first thing tomorrow morning?"

It was said so heart-breakingly tiredly that Starsky barely managed to keep up his act, and some part of him wondered if this was his tiny version of Hutch's earlier ordeal: having to deny his friend much needed and much yearned for rest in order to help him.

Still, he pushed the guilty thoughts aside for the time being and - with an exaggerated sigh - nodded his okay. He didn't forget to add two or three miserable coughs, either, which earned him a very well-registered, irritated look from the blond.

"Okay," Hutch sighed, to Starsky looking suspiciously as if he was about to reconsider going to get the kids' cough medicine after all. To the brunet's relief, though, he yawned instead of offering to go, then asked, "D'you take the other stuff? Pain meds?"

"No," Starsky answered, as if taken completely off guard.

Hutch blinked. Slowly. It was the closest to a real Hutch-like reaction he'd come in the whole three days. "Why not?" he asked, audibly trying to sound patient.

"Couldn't find them," Starsky explained. With things having taken such a swift change, Starsky found himself supplied with renewed energy and meanness.

"On the kitchen counter. I wrote that in the note."

"Note?"

For a split second, Starsky thought he'd been made as Hutch stared at him incredulously, but in the end, the blond just pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, then stood up, exhaustion slowing the process. "I'll go get 'em for you. Water or juice?"

And the show went on. "Water," Starsky replied and waited until the second before Hutch re-entered the room with the pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other one before calling out, "Uh, no, juice."

He wasn't sure, but he could've sworn he heard a curse.

"There you go," Hutch muttered against a huge yawn as he returned to the room, handing the glass and medication to Starsky, who - secretly grateful - swallowed the relief-promising pills.

Hutch watched him, concern breaking through the clouds of tiredness. "Still hurtin' pretty bad, Buddy, huh?" he asked gently, taking the glass again.

The secret glance he cast at the still-bandaged right fingers didn't slip past Starsky. Quickly, he hid them under the covers, making it look as if he was trying to drag the blanket up higher. "Nah," he shook his head slightly, "you're letting yourself get fooled, again."

"Yeah, well," Hutch replied with a sad smile, taking over the tucking-in process, as Starsky slid down to lie on his back again, "one of these days you can stop trying to fool me, how 'bout that?"

"But I'm good at it," Starsky said, allowing himself an inner snicker at that.

Unaware of the inside joke that he was missing, Hutch muttered, "Don't be so sure of that," and yawned again. "I'm gonna go grab some zzz's on the couch, okay? Just for an hour or so. D'you need anything, like, now?"

How Starsky always managed to look so utterly innocent never ceased to amaze Starsky himself. Hutch would never have guessed he'd just stepped right into a trap. "No, I'm good. You get some sleep, Blintz, you really look like you need it."

"Okay," Hutch said and stepped over to the door, where he turned once more. "If you need anything, call me."

"Will do."

And with a parting smile Hutch vanished behind the door, not quite closing it, audibly shuffling along towards the couch, where he could be hear to plop down, fully clothed.

Starsky gave him ten minutes. "Hutch?"

Hutch couldn't have been asleep already - he looked far too coherent for that, when he stumbled through the bedroom door - yet the effort of getting off of the couch again had clearly left a mark on his expression. "Yeah?"

"Aw, sorry, did I wake ya?"

"No," Hutch hurried to reassure, driving a hand through his hair. "No, 'sokay. What is it, d'you need something?"

"Magazine," Starsky replied, pointing at some old modern legends magazine he'd left on the table across the bed.

Hutch just stared down at it.

"Hey," Starsky explained with a smile, "I slept all afternoon, I'm bored."

"Um... sure," Hutch muttered, took the magazine and flipped it onto the bed, close to Starsky's left hand. "There you go. Anything else?"

And again, the innocent look worked. "No, thanks," Starsky said, not looking up at Hutch, as he effortfully reached for the magazine. "Sorry, again."

"Don't be," Hutch waved. "You're welcome. Night." He left once more, and Starsky thought he dragged the door just a tad more closed than before.

This time, he gave him twenty minutes, and this time, Hutch had been asleep.

"Hutch?"

The sight of the disheveled-looking figure now appearing in the door made Starsky sincerely grimace with sympathy. "Aw, now you were asleep, huh? I'm sorry. It's okay, really, I can... You just go back to-"

"No, no," Hutch once more waved and cleared his throat. He rubbed his eyes. "What is it?" When no answer came, he blinked up at his friend, who was making a show out of frowning, his eyes wandering off as if following something.

"Starsk?"

"Forgot," Starsky finally answered and grinned sheepishly. "I forgot what I wanted. I'm sorry. But, y'know..." Feebly, he gestured for his head and shrugged.

Hutch narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but just for a moment, then smiled the most understanding smile he could muster under the circumstances. "'Sokay, Buddy, you know Doctor Greenwald said it could still come and go. No big deal." He waited a second. "Any vague ideas what it might've been?"

"Ah... no. Well," Starsky shrugged, "couldn't've been that important then, right?"

"Right," Hutch muttered, quietly enough to allow himself to sound darkly, and without any parting words turned for the couch again.

Starsky only waited 'til he heard the by now familiar plop. "Hey, now I remember!"

There was a very short silence, then the sound of a hasty throwing off of blankets and angry shuffling back to the bedroom. "Great," Hutch stated, the one word soaked in sarcasm, as he glared down at Starsky. "What?"

"I thought if you could maybe take the remote control back into the living room with ya? I don't want it to get lost again."

Hutch drew in a deep breath and wordlessly grabbed the remote control off of the nightstand. Behind his back, Starsky grinned to himself. Yep, he was very close to success, now.

This time, the door was closed, and none too softly, either.

Starsky counted to ten. "Hut-"

Even before the name had fully left his lips, the door was all but torn open again. "What!"

Starsky blinked, as if surprised, once, twice, then, "Could you leave the door open?"

"Sure," Hutch growled and turned.

"And-"

"Starsky, are you doing this on purpose!" Hutch snapped, whirling around to face his friend. "Whatever it is, go get it yourself! You're just sick, okay! Not paralyzed!"

"Finally," Starsky sighed and rolled his eyes. "It's about time you noticed." Making it very obvious, he used his hands to push himself into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard and grinning at his dumbfounded partner. "Mad at me now, aren't ya?"

"U-um..." Hutch stammered and blinked, as if trying to decide what to make out of the situation. "No, not... mad, but..." he muttered, puzzled, then frowned. "You were doing it on purpose."

Starsky made a show out of giving him a thumbs-up. "Oughta be a detective, Blintz. And," he added mockingly conspiratorially after a pause, "it'd be appropriate to be mad now, y'know?"

Hutch just looked at him. Somehow, though, the expression forming on his face wasn't what Starsky had expected. Or hoped for.

"Hutch?"

Hutch sighed, rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Starsk," he said and cast his friend an apologetic smile. "I know I've probably been a pest these last few days, mother-henning you to death and... but..." He was searching for words. "It's just that-"

"Whoa," Starsky cut him off, lifting his seldom used Starsky-warning-finger (a rather poor imitation of his friend's impressive typical gesture), "hold it right there, Pal. I'm not gonna listen to any more apologies. I bugged you for three days now, and all I get is more apologies! Uh-uh," he shook his head. "We're gonna talk this out, and now. C'mere." Shoving one edge of his blanket aside, he patted the mattress next to him.

Responding more out of surprise than out of obedience, Hutch shuffled closer and sat down, brows lifted questioningly.

"Now," Starsky started, sounding like he was about to hold a speech, "you listen to me. Nothing that happened back at the camp was your fault. Okay?" He paused. "Come on, nod."

Hutch nodded slightly.

"Good boy. You did your job, Hutch, and you did great. You saved Ethan... or whatever the hell his name is, Topher, probably Pixie too, yourself and - most importantly - me. That's nothing to feel bad about, or is it?" Once more, he paused, and when Hutch didn't react, raised his brows expectantly.

Understanding, Hutch shook his head softly.

"There," Starsky said proudly, gently squeezing Hutch's good arm. "So what are you continuing to beat yourself up about?"

Hutch seemed to take a sudden interest in his own bare feet, as his gaze fell.

Starsky waited patiently, but after a few seconds tugged at Hutch's sleeve to get him to look up again. He smiled encouragingly.

Hutch couldn't meet his friend's eyes for long. "It's just..." he started, gesturing feebly for Starsky's bandaged right hand, "I'm so sorry I hurt you." He shot Starsky a pained glance, then looked down again. "I... I'd never hurt you, but..." A nervous, sarcastic laugh broke free. "I did. And... and I'm sorry." Shyly, he glanced upwards at his patiently listening friend, again. "I'm sorry, Starsk. I just... I didn't know how to play the situation, and it all happened so fast, and... I probably should've..." A pause followed, as Hutch's eyes flashed about, trying to catch some alternative he had yet to come up with. "Dunno," he finally stated, "but... something. Should've done something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know!" Hutch exclaimed, then lowered his voice. "Something."

"If the Looneys had found out you were a cop, too, they'd have killed us both. And we couldn't leave, because I said so. If you wanna blame someone, why don't you blame me for making you stay?"

Instantly, Hutch softened his expression. "You had no way of knowing Ethan had set us up."

"I know," Starsky said casually. "And neither did you." Watching as the words sank in, though they were obviously still met with fierce resistance, he gently added, "No one's blaming you for anything, but yourself, Hutch."

Hutch didn't look at him. "I never wanted to hurt you," he mumbled.

"I know," Starsky repeated, sounding like it was understood. Unnecessary to even mention. He bent his head a tad to look into Hutch's face. "But we both know sometimes you have to do crap you don't like when undercover. Don't we? Remember the time I had to hit you in front of those dirty cops? Think I liked doing that?"

A tiny, amused sound escaped Hutch, and he even looked up slightly. "That was different."

"Yeah," Starsky replied dryly, "you don't see me whining."

Hutch chuckled, but lifted his brows in faked indignation. "Hey, you did hit me pretty hard back there."

"Sissy."

Hutch just smiled, looking down again.

Starsky's voice grew serious again, soft and urgent at the same time. "Nothing has changed, Partner." Comfortingly, he gave the blond's neck a gentle squeeze and let his hand linger comfortingly. "I'm sorry this job sucked so much. But you gotta stop feeling responsible for that. After all, you got the bad guys." He grinned.

Understanding, Hutch snorted a soft chuckle. He had yet to lift his head again. "Yeah." A deep sigh followed, and - at last - haunted, sky blue eyes found Starsky's. "I don't think I ever felt that much like shit before." He shook his head, almost sadly. "Or hated myself more, for that matter." The fingers on the back of his neck tightened comfortingly, but he didn't notice. "If I hadn't stopped Brighton..." Once more, he shook his head, but seemed somewhat determined this time. "Next time, it's my decision," he said ironically.

Starsky nodded. "Sure. We'll take turns. No prob."

Hutch smiled, nodded.

"Okay," Starsky said, drawing his hand back. "Wanna tell me where you slept at, when I was at the hospital?"

Taken off guard, Hutch opened his mouth in surprise, but thought differently and simply answered, "In the car."

Starsky sighed in sympathy. "Hutch."

"Just didn't feel right, sleeping here, when you couldn't come home, yet, because of me," Hutch explained in a small voice, looking up into his friend's eyes with his head bowed. As he shrugged slightly, hi lips arched in a sheepish smile.

Starsky watched him for a moment, a very familiar, protective feeling spreading inside him, though he knew he probably looked chiding. Sleeping first in what he called a car and then on the notoriously bumpy Starsky-couch had probably done wonders for Hutch's back...

Supplied with sudden determined energy, Starsky quickly climbed out of the bed, drawing back the covers in the process. "Get in," he ordered, and before Hutch even had time to protest, added, "Or I'll find myself forced to discuss the smoking problem right now, as well."

It didn't take Hutch a second to plop down on the mattress.

Nodding contentedly, Starsky tucked him in and pointed over his shoulder at the door. "I'll be watching cartoons. Yell, if you need something, okay?"

Hutch just nodded, already having to blink fast to keep his eyes open. He struggled to suppress a yawn.

Starsky couldn't hide an affectionate smile at the sight. "'Sokay," he said softly, lightly brushing his hand over disheveled blond hair. "Just sleep. Everything's fine."

On his way out, he suddenly stopped in the open door, and turned to let Hutch know that, of course, he didn't really have to get new cough medicine in the morning, but all that met him was the soft sounds of Hutch's even breathing emerging from somewhere down in the bundle of pillows and blankets the blond had snuggled up into.

The planned words fading in his throat, Starsky smiled, quietly whispered, "Sweet dreams, Buddy," and gently closed the door behind himself.

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Starsky's cough quickly faded into a mere scratchy feeling, and his bruises and cuts had already healed nicely when he returned to work again, a week short of Hutch, who had taken some time off to take care of him.

The brunet's broken fingers were on the mend as well, and, contrary to his long faded electroshock-caused bad memory, he did his best to never let on, when they still bothered him in front of Hutch.

As for the sudden attacks of confusion he still - quite often - suffered from: it didn't take Hutch, Dobey, or anyone else very long to figure out they were an act. The only one still firmly believing in them was Starsky, himself. He only stopped misusing them as alibis for overdue reports or skipped meetings when Hutch started to turn them against him by claiming promises Starsky had allegedly made ("You said you'd write that report, Buddy. Don't you remember?") or similar things ("Um, actually it's my turn to choose lunch today, Starsk. Yours was yesterday. Don't you remember?").

Between the detectives, things were finally back to normal, for which Starsky was very grateful, to the point of even grinning in relief when Hutch - in his typical, sarcastic way - complained about Starsky's whining - "Aw, for Christ's sake, Starsk, you're left-handed! Why'd you have to try and learn typing with your right now, anyway! I'm starving!" - and only when he sensed the blond's questioning gaze on him did he remember to join in and take over his part in the banter - "Correct me, if I'm wrong, but wasn't it you who has gotten on my nerves all these years now about becoming right-handed? I'm just practicing, like they said you should in that book you gave me."

"Book? I'd never give you a book, Gordo. Must be your memory playing tricks on you, again. Come on, let's go get food."

Yes, things really were back to the way they used to be. Or... almost.

It was almost a week after Starsky's return to work when Hutch, after claiming to need to get some file from the archives, stepped outside the building, leaned against the brick wall to the right of the entry steps, patted his pockets searchingly - and frowned.

"Looking for this?"

If the outside had had a ceiling, Hutch would've bumped his head. "Man!" he panted, involuntarily grabbing his heart, while he stared at his approaching friend. "Give a guy a heart attack."

"Yeah, well," Starsky shrugged mercilessly, waving the half-empty pack of cigarettes he held, "seems to me you're keen on getting one, anyway."

Visibly uncomfortable with the situation, Hutch averted his eyes. "Um... I can explain."

"So can I," Starsky replied with a tone of voice that sounded almost condescending, like he was talking to a kid in trouble. "Now," he continued after a short pause, studying the pack in his hand as if grabbed by a sudden interest in it, "what was all that talk about 'I can stop again, too, Starsk, don't worry, I just happened to be undercover, yaddah, yaddah...'" Lifting his gaze, he frowned at Hutch in mocking confusion. "Is it my memory playing tricks on me, again-"

Hutch rolled his eyes.

"- or do you really happen to not be undercover anymore? Maybe I'm contagious, and you... forgot?" he teased.

Hutch drew in a breath, struggling to keep his dignity here, but in the end he unwillingly muttered, "Okay, okay. I admit it. It is harder for me to stop again than it is for you. Happy now?"

Starsky sighed deeply, mockingly disappointed, and shook his head. "Why is it you never listen to me, Blondie?"

"If I tell you, will you give me my cigarettes back?"

Starsky just laughed - "Yeah, sure." - and stuffed the pack into his jeans pocket.

His features evening out into a heart-breaking sick puppy look, Hutch's gaze never left the pack.

Noticing, Starsky abandoned his next teasing comment and rolled his eyes. "Hutch, stop that. Just kick it. You did it before. Turn to candy for a little while, like the rest of us mortals, no big deal."

Hutch grimaced. Easy for Starsky to say. Except for food, there didn't seem to be a thing on this Earth the brunet could get addicted to, the least of which would be nicotine. It had been Starsky's decision way back in the academy to quit smoking for good, and because he'd read somewhere that you shouldn't be around smokers in the process of quitting, he had practically ordered Hutch to quit as well. But while Starsky had quit smoking like you'd quit eating raw cauliflower, for Hutch it had been a torturous struggle. Not to mention that he had needed four attempts, all in all.

"I hate candy," Hutch pointed out lamely.

"Okay, how'd you do it last time?"

"Fasted."

"Oh," Starsky muttered and bit his lip, as he took a moment to let his eyes wander down Hutch's slightly-too-thin body. "That might not be such a good idea at the moment," he admitted. "Y'know, in fact, you look like you could do with some candy."

"And just how do I kick the candy afterwards?"

Starsky blinked. "'Kick' candy!" he repeated incredulously. "Whoever heard of that? Look, Hutch, how 'bout we find something candy-like, but weird enough for you to be able to eat? Like... dunno, soy cookies. sprout muffins. Something yucky. How's that sound?"

Hutch pursed his lower lip, thinking about it, then smiled. "Sounds good."

"'Kay." Starsky nodded, grinning contentedly. "Then, c'mon, let's go back to work. If you don't hand in that report from yesterday's bust, Dobey will have a fit. And then he'll have to 'interrupt' his diet again, and you don't wanna be responsible for that, do you?"

Following his partner up the stairs to the entry, Hutch frowned, innocently. "Me handing in that report? Sorry, Pal, but it's your turn today. Don't you remem-"

"Just stop it right there, Brains. My memory's officially back at work, from now on, okay? That report's yours."

"Actually, it's really not, Starsk."

"It is, now. Hey," Starsky quickly changed the topic, snapping his fingers, "maybe we'll find something to help Dobey kick... uh... well, food too."

Hutch thought about that. "Smoking makes you less hungry," he finally stated.

"Mm-hmm," Starsky nodded. "Or watching you making your morning shakes. Maybe you could settle for doing that at the office from now on."

"Right," Hutch agreed dryly, "and what with your table manners, you could have all your meals at the office, too. That way, we'll have the whole precinct on a no-nutrition-diet soon."

"You know why you're so grumpy all the time? Because you never eat candy, that's why. I bet you're suffering from a constant lack of make-you-happy-enzymes."

"Endorphins."

"Whatever," Starsky waved. Spotting a candy vending machine, he headed straight for it.

"Yeah," Hutch nodded dryly. "I'm sure I am. Now, about that report..."

But his friend wasn't listening. He was busy producing two chocolate bars from the vending machine (much to Hutch's impressed surprised - he hadn't even seen him put money in it) and holding one out for Hutch. "Happy quitting."

"Thanks," Hutch sighed, amusedly, faking his annoyance. He took the candy, watching his friend rip open his own. "Make-you-happy-enzymes are addictive too, y'know?"

Starsky shrugged. Around a mouthful of chocolate, he replied, "What's wrong with being addicted to happiness?" and grinned, patting Hutch's back. "C'mon, you've got a report to write."

Watching after him, Hutch weighed the candy bar in his hand, then with a shrug ripped it open and, chewing, followed his partner down the hallway.

THE END


End file.
